The Pale Echo
The wind does not howl; it screeches, a high, metallic tear that vibrates in the marrow of your bones. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, and you are dying in the North, not from the cold, but from the debt that chases you faster than the snow. Your boots are soaked through, the leather stiff and cracking with every step, but you cannot stop. If you stop, the ledger is lost, and if the...
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