The Pale Path
The chisel bit into the soft belly of the ash, sending a curl of pale, fibrous wood spiraling outward like a ribbon of dried skin, and Elias Thorne did not stop, his breath held in the tight cage of his chest, his eyes fixed on the grain with the intensity of a surgeon navigating a blocked artery. The workshop smelled of sawdust and the sharp, medicinal tang of linseed oil, a scent that had...
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