The Wistful Mountain
The marker is not iron. That was the first thing Elias noticed, though he had held it for twenty years without question. It was bone, old and dense, the color of dried blood under the mist. "You cannot use a shard of bone as a deed, Mr. Thorne." Vane’s voice was dry, like sand scraped across stone. He did not look at the object in Elias’s hand. He looked at the ridge, where the fog was...
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