The Wistful Saga
The cellar of the Guild Hall smelled of damp stone and the sharp, metallic tang of fear, a scent that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he hunched over the master’s ceremonial robe, his fingers moving with a frantic, mechanical precision that belied the trembling of his wrists. He was forty years old, though the indigo stains that had seeped into the whorls of his palms over two...
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