The Golden Echoes
The count was always the same: three hundred and twelve stones in the outer ring, one hundred and eight in the inner, and the single, heavy granite block at the center that the villagers refused to touch. Elias Thorne had spent the last four hours counting them again, his boots sinking into the wet, black peat of the highland moor, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts that misted in the...
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