The Pale Path
The air in the Great Hall of the Ironworks smelled of oxidized copper and the heavy, wet earth that had been dragged in from the northern fields, a scent that had settled into the weave of the tapestries and the grain of the oak tables until it was indistinguishable from the very soul of the institution. Elias Thorne stood at the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, watching...
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