The Distant Legend
The fog did not roll in so much as it was poured, a thick, salt-tinged mist that swallowed the horizon of the Ashen Wastes. Elias Thorne walked the border, his boots crunching on the white crust of the earth, the salt so dense it glittered like broken glass under the dying light. He was forty-two years old, a master clockmaker with hands that had repaired the timepieces of three generations of...
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