The Wistful Saga
Chapter One Vladimir Tsiklauri’s hands were steady, though his throat felt like dry clay. He sat in the lamp room of the mine, a place that smelled of wet iron and old sweat, watching the light fade through the single pane of glass. The deed to the house was written in a language no one alive could read, a fact that hung over the pawnshop like a debt no one wanted to collect. Outside, the ferry...
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