The Faded Photograph

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2026-08-20 21:34:39 -

The wind off the river carried the smell of wet wool and woodsmoke, a scent that had become indistinguishable from the fear in Elias Thorne’s bones. He stood at the edge of the treeline, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that felt heavier with each passing hour, not because of the steel, but because of the weight of the expectation placed upon his shoulders by the men who had raised him....

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