The Distant Clue
The rain does not fall here. It seeps. It rises from the black earth like a breath held too long, soaking the roots of the willows that line the riverbank. You sit on the wet stone. Your hand rests on the hilt of your sword. The leather is slick. The metal is cold. You are Edward Ashworth. You are the last of the Ashworth line. Or so the town believes. You have been in the village of Oakhaven...
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