The Golden Scar
The road into Ashworth was not paved, but packed with the grey mud of a hundred rainy seasons, and it smelled of wet wool and old iron. Elias Thorne drove his cart slowly, the wheels sinking into the soft earth with a rhythmic, sucking sound that seemed to drain the life from the air around him. He was a man who dealt in small truths, a merchant of hinges, latches, and the quiet mechanisms that...
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