The Wistful Saga
The lantern light in the basement was not the warm gold of hearth-fires, but a sickly, jaundiced green that seemed to seep into the walls. Elias Thorne sat on a wooden crate, his hands resting on his knees, the heavy wool of his constable’s tunic clinging to him in the damp cold. He was not there to arrest. He was not there to question. He was there because the thing in the corner was...
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