The Pale Banner
Thorne. The word came from the back of the room, a low, gravelly bark that cut through the hum of the looms. I didn’t turn. I was already moving, my boots scraping the linoleum floor of the mill office, the cold air of the November morning seeping through the gaps in the window frames. Outside, Oakhaven was a grey smear of soot and steam, the industrial heart of the county beating its...
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