The Wistful Show
The silver circlet rests cold against your temple, a band of frozen light that bites into the skin of your forehead. You are Elias, forty-two, and you have walked for three days through the mist-shrouded valley of Oakhaven, your boots caked in the grey mud of a world that has forgotten the sun. You carry the weight of your late father’s pride, bound in silver, and you carry the desperate,...
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