The Pale Path
The hammer struck the iron gear with a dull, wet thud that echoed off the damp stone walls of the cellar. Elias’s hand, wrapped in a rag stained black with oil, trembled against the handle, but he did not stop. The sound was rhythmic, relentless, a heartbeat in the dark that seemed to sync with the grinding of the millstones above. He was thirty years old, though his face looked older, hollowed...
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