The Distant Legend
The ink was black, but it smelled of iron and old blood. Elias Thorne held the quill, his hand trembling not from cold, but from the sheer weight of the paper beneath his fingers. It was the founding charter of Oakhaven, a document he had spent twenty years pretending to remember. He was forty-two now, a night watchman with a pension that hung by a thread, and that thread was his silence. The...
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