The Wistful Petal
The road into the valley was not a road in any legal sense, but a scar of packed mud that wound between the ancient, silver-barked pines. Elias Thorne walked it with the heavy, rhythmic tread of a man who had long since forgotten how to move without purpose. He carried no sword, no shield, only the weight of a leather satchel that contained his life’s work: a single, dried petal of wisteria,...
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