The Wistful Throne
The mist did not roll into Oakhaven; it stood there, a thick, grey wall that swallowed the road at the town’s edge. Elias Thorne killed the engine of his patrol car, the silence rushing in to fill the space where the hum had been. He was thirty-two, a sergeant with a jaw set like granite and a badge that felt too heavy on his chest. He came for the heirloom, the silver locket that belonged to...
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