The Distant Ghost
The black veins crept up Elias Thorne’s forearm like ink in water, pulsing with a cold, rhythmic hunger. He paused, the chisel hovering over the limestone block, his breath shallow in the thin air of the scaffold. The Grey Wither had taken three years of his life in the last month, turning his hair white at the temples and etching deep trenches into his cheeks. He was forty-two, but he felt...
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