The Faded Dust
The fire in the hearth crackled, spitting sparks that danced against the stone walls of the village hall. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the feast, his hands trembling as he clutched a withered rowan branch. The wood was pale, almost white, and it pulsed with a faint, cold light that seemed to drain the warmth from the air around it. He was forty-two, though his hair had turned the color of...
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