The Faded River
The parchment lay on the rough-hewn table, its edges curling inward like the skin of a dying leaf, and Elias Thorne stared at the final, empty space where the ink should have been, his hands trembling so violently that the quill shook against the wood, a small, rhythmic tapping that seemed to measure out the remaining seconds of his sight. He was forty years old, though he looked older, his...
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