The Wistful Crossroads
The bell tower of St. Jude’s rang out a heavy, iron-throated note that vibrated in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones, cutting through the thick, humid air of the market square where the air smelled of rotting apples, wet wool, and the metallic tang of fear, and there he stood, not as a man but as a vessel, his hands clasped tightly around a lantern that burned with a flame the color of a...
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