The Pale Bridge
The rain did not fall so much as it materialized, a fine, cold mist that settled on the cobblestones of Oakhaven like a shroud, erasing the sharp edges of the medieval bridge that spanned the river’s black, sluggish current. Elias Thorne walked across it, his leather satchel heavy against his hip, the weight of the parchment within pressing against his spine with the persistent, dull ache of a...
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