The Pale Path
The satchel hung heavy on Elias Thorne’s shoulder, the leather straps digging into his flesh as he stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching his mother, Martha, struggle to rise from the chair where she had been sitting for three days, her face a mask of grey exhaustion and the pale, hollow look that the town called the Wasting. The air in the room smelled of damp wool and the sharp, acrid...
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