The Wistful Saga
The frost on the windowpane of the watchtower had a specific texture, like crushed glass held up to a weak light. Elias Thorne pressed his gloved hand against it, feeling the cold bite into the leather, a sharp and immediate sensation that grounded him in the present. He was a man who lived by protocols, by the rigid architecture of duty, and yet the frost always seemed to defy his control,...
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