The Distant Legend

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2026-08-23 06:46:13 -

The damp in the cellar of the Whitmore Textile Mill did not smell like rain; it smelled of wet wool and the slow, rotting decay of ambition. Elias Thorne sat on a overturned crate, his back pressed against the cold brick, holding a cracked porcelain figurine in his hands. It was a small thing, a saint with a halo chipped away to reveal the rough clay beneath, and he turned it over and over, the...

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