The Wistful Crossroads
The gate of the outpost groaned under the weight of the wind, a sound like a dying animal. Elias Thorne stood before it, his breath pluming in the freezing air, holding a vial of sap that glowed with a faint, sickly amber light. He was forty years old, a border patrol agent with twenty years of service, and he had come to save his sister, Mara, from the Gray Rot. The Rot was not a disease, at...
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