The Pale Verdict
The forge was a tomb of iron and heat, and Elias Thorne knew he was dying. The year was 1348, and the air in the valley did not smell of woodsmoke or sweat anymore; it smelled of wet earth and sweet rot, a pervasive stench that seemed to seep through the stone walls of his workshop. He was forty years old, a blacksmith of modest reputation, and his younger brother, Thomas, had been buried three...
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