The Faded Dust
The ledger lay open on the scarred oak table, its pages brittle with age, the ink faded to a ghostly brown. Elias Vane traced the entries with a finger that trembled slightly, not from cold, but from the weight of the numbers themselves: forty years of unpaid wages, recorded in a hand that had long since ceased to exist. He was a scholar, or had been, before the village of Oria began to treat...
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