The Wistful Crossroads
Thorne, you are late for the final commission. The voice came from the driver of the stagecoach, a man whose face was obscured by the brim of a wide hat and the dust of the road. Elias Thorne did not look up from the satchel at his feet. He was checking the seals on the maps, his fingers trembling slightly, not from the cold, but from the rhythmic thumping of his heart against his ribs. He was...
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