The Pale Meridian
The stone hall of the Old Parish did not merely stand at the edge of the mist-covered valley; it loomed, a jagged tooth of grey granite biting into the sky, its arches gaping like the mouth of a beast that had swallowed the light centuries ago and refused to digest it. Elias Thorne had been born beneath its shadow, and he had spent the better part of forty years trying to escape the specific,...
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