The Wistful Ashes
The rain in Oakhaven did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into a treacherous mirror of the grey sky above. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the central square, his hand resting not on a sword, for such weapons had been obsolete for three generations, but on the hilt of a ceremonial staff that had once belonged to his father. It was an oak staff,...
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