The Distant Nightmare
The pickaxe head was cold, slick with condensation, and it fit Elias Thorne’s palm with a familiarity that felt less like tool-use and more like a joint being set. He stood before the boundary wall of Blackthorn Hall, the stone grey and unyielding under the November fog, and for the third time that morning, he swung. The impact was a dull thud, a vibration that traveled up his radius and...
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