The Wistful Crossroads
In the damp dark of the cellar, Elias Thorne held the Ledger of Souls, its leather cover slick with condensation that felt less like water and more like the sweat of a dying animal. The book was heavy, a physical weight that pressed against his palms with a heat that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the lie he had carried for twenty years. He had come here to pay the...
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