The Faded Attic
The wagon wheels groaned against the packed earth of the King’s Highway, a sound that seemed to vibrate up through the wooden slats of the floorboards and into the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones, a rhythmic, grinding pain that mirrored the slow, inevitable erosion of his soul. He sat at the front, his hands white-knuckled around the reins, his eyes fixed not on the road ahead but on the bundle...
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