The Golden Farce
The valley of Oren was not a place on any modern map, but a scar in the earth where the mist never fully lifted, a place that smelled of wet limestone and old blood. Elias Thorne stood at the base of the unfinished Aurelian Spire, his hands stained with mortar and the fresh, coppery scent of the ritual. He was forty-five, a man whose career had crumbled under the weight of a single,...
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