The Wistful Skyline
The obsidian mirror did not show Elias Thorne’s face, but rather the raw, unadorned architecture of his desire, a jagged landscape of red intent that pulsed with the rhythm of his heart as he stood in the shadow of the tower room, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that felt heavier than it had in twenty years of service to the Crown. He was forty years old, a man whose joints ached with...
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