The Distant Journey
The mist in Oakhaven did not rise so much as it exhaled, a grey breath that clung to the cobblestones and seeped into the joints of the old timber houses. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his workshop, the glass cold against his forehead, watching the fog swallow the square where the Great Bell stood silent and accusing. He was forty years old, a man whose hands were steady enough to...
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