The Golden Maze
The mud of the border village did not merely stain Elias Thorne’s boots; it seemed to swallow the very ground beneath him, a viscous, black testament to the autumn’s relentless decay. He stood there, shivering not from the cold that bit through his threadbare wool, but from the sudden, violent rejection of the magistrate’s clerk, who had stamped the word HERETIC in red ink across the parchment...
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