The Wistful Crossroads
The rain did not fall so much as it insisted, a cold, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world and made the cobblestones slick with a sheen that looked like old blood. Elias Thorne walked with the heavy, deliberate gait of a man who has carried a burden so long it has fused to his spine, his boots striking a rhythm against the wet stone that sounded less like walking and more like a...
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