The Distant Garden
The mist in Oakhaven did not roll in; it sat, heavy and damp, like a wet wool blanket thrown over the face of the world. Sergeant Elias Thorne stepped off the cart, his boots sinking into mud that smelled of rot and iron. He was forty-two, a man carved from the same hard clay as the law he served, and he carried a ledger in his chest pocket that weighed more than his rifle. The decree in his...
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