The Faded Attic
Thorne, you’re blocking the ale line. The voice belonged to Silas, the butcher’s son, who stood with a tankard of dark, foaming stout in each hand, his face flushed with the heat of the festival and the specific irritation of a man whose business was being impeded. Elias Thorne, Sergeant of the Oakhaven Constabulary, stepped aside, his boots squelching in the mud that had turned the harvest...
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