The Distant Ghost
The iron oak at the center of the square did not move, it did not sway, and it did not whisper, for the wind in this city had long since learned to respect the stillness of things that had been declared permanent, and it was beneath this unyielding, bark-scarred sentinel that Elias Thorne stood, his posture a rigid architecture of duty and exhaustion, his hands resting on the pommel of a sword...
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