The Wistful Witness
The stone walls of Oakhaven do not merely enclose the village; they hold their breath, a cold, damp silence that presses against the skin of anyone who walks the narrow, cobbled lanes at dusk. You are Elias Thorne, a constable of forty-two years, and your hands, usually steady enough to break a man’s jaw without hesitation, are trembling as you grip the iron ring of the keep’s entrance gate....
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