The Golden Visit
The rain fell in sheets of iron against the slate roof of the watchtower, a rhythmic hammering that seemed to vibrate through the very marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones, a sound that had become the only constant in a life unraveling into mist and memory, while he stood with his back to the crumbling stone wall, his hand resting on the cold hilt of a sword that felt less like metal and more like a...
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