The Wistful Show
Elias, you are late. The voice of Lord Vane cut through the morning mist with the sharpness of a flint struck against steel. Elias stood in the courtyard of the manor, his boots sinking into the mud that had accumulated over the night’s rain. The air in Oakhaven was thick, a physical weight that pressed against the skin, smelling of wet wool and old blood. It was the season of the Wistful Show,...
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