The Wistful Witness
The mud on your boots is still fresh, a dark, sucking thing that smells of iron and rot, but the town of Oakhaven looks as clean as a church window. You stand at the edge of the green, where the cobblestones give way to the soft, yielding earth of the common land. It is a small place, this town, tucked into the valley like a secret kept too long. The houses are stone, ancient and grey, their...
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