The Golden Crossing
The service revolver sat in Elias Thorne’s palm, cold and heavy, its walnut grip worn smooth by twenty years of handling. He checked the cylinder one last time, the click of the mechanism sharp against the creaking wood of the wagon, before turning his gaze to the man shackled to the driver’s seat. Silas sat with his hands bound in iron, his face a mask of pale, unblinking calm, while the...
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