The Wistful Witness
The road to the highlands was not a road at all, but a scar of white gravel that cut through the heather like a vein of bone in old flesh. Elias Thorne walked it with the heavy, rhythmic gait of a man who had forgotten the sensation of his legs, so long had he been a mind moving through a world that refused to be mapped. He was a seeker of the Mark, a title that in the lowlands meant a hunter...
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