The Pale Banner
You think the light is a gift, Silas. Elias Thorne spoke the words into the damp air, his voice rougher than the granite beneath his boots. The wind on the Isle of Vane did not blow so much as it pressed, a heavy, cold hand against the chest, carrying the scent of brine and something older, something metallic that tasted of copper on the tongue. He stood at the edge of the cliff, watching the...
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