The Distant Journey
The dream always ended with the sound of limestone grinding against limestone, a low, tectonic moan that vibrated through the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones long before he opened his eyes. He woke in the pale, pre-dawn light of his quarters in the capital, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and stale tobacco, his right hand trembling not with the phantom pain of the missing left, but with...
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