The Distant Journey
The autumn wind rattled the leaded panes of the study at Thorne Hall, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of Elias’s bones, though it was the silence of the room that truly oppressed him. He sat at his desk, the mahogany surface scarred by decades of ink stains and the frantic scratches of his quill, staring not at the treatise on the Cycle of Sorrow before him, but at the left hand...
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