The Distant Promise
Thorne, you are late, and the mist is taking the ridge. Old Silas stood at the edge of the moor, his breath pluming in the cold air, holding a lantern that swung with the erratic rhythm of a man whose hands had forgotten how to be still. Elias Thorne did not turn. He was already walking, his boots sinking into the wet heather that clung to the earth like a wet woolen shroud. He carried the...
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