The Faded River
The fire did not begin as a spark but as a sigh, a long, low exhalation of smoke that tasted of ash and forgotten seasons, creeping through the rafters of the Guild Hall with the slow, inevitable patience of a tide that has no intention of receding, and in that suffocating, orange-lit twilight, Elias Thorne stood amidst the swirling dust of his own making, watching the very object he had spent...
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