The Distant Journey
The iron key in Elias Thorne’s pocket felt heavier than the stone walls surrounding him. He stood in the center of the watchtower, the damp air clinging to his wool tunic, his eyes fixed on the heavy oak door that had not been opened in three days. The Council had accused him of smuggling contraband wine, a charge born of their prejudice against his low birth, and the only evidence they...
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