The Wistful Skyline
The banquet hall of the Oakhaven Garrison smelled of roasted pheasant and damp wool, a thick, cloying mixture that seemed to settle in the throat like sediment, and at the center of the long oak table, Captain Elias Thorne sat with his hands folded rigidly in his lap, his eyes fixed not on the General’s toast but on the small, crystal vial resting on the silver tray before him, containing a...
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