The Faded Paradox
The road to the salt flats was not a path so much as a scar, a pale line of crushed chalk and dry earth that cut through the high moors of the north. Elias Thorne walked it with the steady, heavy gait of a man who had spent forty years shaping wood into vessels for storage, and now, perhaps, for memory. He was a merchant of curiosities in the coastal town of Dunhollow, a place where the fog...
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