The Faded Road
The clay cracked under Elias Thorne’s thumb. He held the two halves of the bowl together with a grimace, trying to fit the jagged edges so the dark, viscous paste inside would not spill onto the stone floor. The smell hit him first, a thick miasma of stale sweat, dried blood, and the sharp, metallic tang of old iron. It was the scent of the infirmary, a place that had not seen sunlight in...
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