The Wistful Crossroads
The road to the Ashen Ridge does not ask for a toll in coin, but in the weight of what you have been. Elias Thorne stood at the base of the incline, the air thick with the metallic scent of rusted iron and damp rot, and felt the first pull of the Silent Tax tugging at the back of his skull. He was forty-two, a man whose hands had been too rough for the delicate work of the valley and too old...
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