The Wistful Dinner
The axe bit into the oak with a sound like a bone snapping under a boot. Elias Thorne counted the strikes. One. Two. Three. Each blow drove the steel deeper, and each blow cost him a pound of sweat that would not come back. The tree was three feet wide at the base, its bark a map of scars older than the constabulary itself. It stood in the center of the garden, a dark pillar holding up the sky,...
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