The Golden Visit
The rain in Oakhaven did not fall so much as it accumulated, a heavy, grey mist that clung to the cobblestones and seeped into the joints of the ancient city walls, turning the air into a thick, damp cloth that suffocated the breath of those who walked beneath it. Elias Thorne, a scribe of forty years whose hands were stained permanently with ink and whose eyes had grown dim from decades of...
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