The Golden Cellar
The mist in the valley of Oakhaven did not behave like weather; it behaved like a living thing, coiling around the wheels of Elias Thorne’s cart with a wet, deliberate slowness that made the horses snort and pull back against their traces. Elias, a man whose hands were stained permanently with the tinctures of his trade, clutched the reins until his knuckles whitened, his eyes fixed on the...
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