The Golden Quest
The left hand was a ruin of knotted veins and pale, translucent skin, trembling against the hilt of the ancestral claymore as Elias Thorne stood in the center of the frost-bitten courtyard. He was fifty years old, a veteran of the Border Guard whose service had once been marked by a steady grip and a clear conscience, but for the past decade the flesh of his left arm had been retreating, a slow...
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