The Golden Maze
The rain in Oakhaven did not wash things clean; it only made the grime slicker. Elias Thorne stood at the gate of the lower quarter, the sealed decree heavy in his satchel, the brass compass warm against his thigh. He was forty years old, a clerk of twenty years, and his hands trembled not with fear but with a primal, biological urge to turn back and run into the woods. The scent of wet ash...
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