The Wistful Silence
Elias Thorne’s fingers were black with soot, the grime packed deep into the whorls of his nails, as he rubbed the edge of the millstone until the rough grit gave way to a smooth, cold surface. The light in the workshop was failing, a thin, gray sheet filtering through the high, barred windows, and he could not tell if the shadow lengthening across the floor was his own or the ghost of the...
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