The Wistful Skyline
Thorne. The name was called out by the wind, or perhaps by the hollows in the stone, but it sounded distinct enough to cut through the damp air of the outpost. Elias Thorne stood alone in the center of the old mill, his back against the rough-hewn timber of the main support beam. He was forty-two years old, and his knees ached with a dull, persistent throb that the cold made sharper. He checked...
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