The Faded Ruin
The mist in Oakhaven did not rise from the ground; it leaked from the cracks in the earth, thick and cold as milk. Elias Thorne stood at the gate, his fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of his sword, waiting for the man who owned his life. He was thirty-two years old, a sergeant with a pension that had been promised but never paid, and a sister whose grave was still fresh dirt. The air...
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