The Golden Mirror
The mist in the valley of Oakhaven did not merely obscure the world; it seemed to suspend it, a thick, grey wool that muffled the sound of Elias Thorne’s boots as he climbed the muddy track toward the village. He was thirty years old, though the High Court’s seal in his breast pocket felt heavier than his years, a cold square of lead that reminded him of the mandate carried by any inquisitor of...
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