The Golden Suspect
The road into the valley of Ashwood was not a path in the way you had known paths in the city of stone, but a living vein of mud and ancient root, pulsing with a dampness that seemed to seep into the marrow of your bones. You walked with a heavy, deliberate pace, the weight of the years carried in the soles of your shoes, each step a small act of surrender to the gravity of this place. The air...
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