The Wistful Skyline
The count of the sacks began at dawn, a rhythmic clatter of grain against wood that echoed through the long hall of the village hall, where the air smelled of damp wool, stale ale, and the metallic tang of fear that had settled over Oakhaven like a second skin. Captain Elias Thorne, forty years old and serving his twelfth year under the Duke’s banner, stood at the head of the table, his fingers...
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