The Pale Path
The jar is heavy, Elias, heavier than it should be. You hold it against your chest as the carriage lurches over the cobblestones, the clay warm and slick with the condensation of your own breath. The driver, a man with a face like a cracked walnut, does not look back. He is waiting for you to speak, to offer some coin or some excuse for the delay, but you say nothing. You are not used to being...
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