The Faded Chronicle
The chisel bit into the granite with a sharp, gritty shriek. Elias Thorne held the tool steady, his knuckles white, the vibration of the stone traveling up his arms and into his teeth. He was forty-two, a man whose hands were mapped with scars and calluses, and he needed this spire finished. He needed the pension. The pension was the only thing standing between him and the cold, empty flat he...
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