The Wistful Witness
"You are dying, Thomas." The voice did not come from the air, but from the grain of the oak table beneath your hands, vibrating up through your calloused palms into the bones of your wrists. You looked up, expecting to see the face of the Guild Master, old Elias, with his beard like a cascade of white lichen and his eyes the color of storm clouds over the Hebrides. Instead, you saw only the...
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