The Pale Path
The name was not called out in anger, but in the flat, procedural tone of a man reading a ledger, yet it struck Elias Thorne like a physical blow to the sternum as he stood at the edge of the cliff, the wind tearing at his wool coat. Silas stood ten paces below on the slick rock, his face pale and drawn, holding a sheaf of papers that flapped violently in the gale. Elias had climbed for three...
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