The bell chimed—a low, melodic toll—as he stepped inside. The air smelled of cedar, old parchment, and something metallic, like a lightning storm held in a jar. "I'm looking for a cape," Elias said to the gloom.
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The rain didn’t just fall in Oakhaven; it hammered against the cobblestones like a rhythmic warning. Elias stood before the warped wooden door of "The Weaver’s Shadow," a shop that didn't appear on any modern map. He wasn't there for a costume or a fashion statement. He was there because the wind had begun to whisper his name, and the only protection against a spectral chill is a garment born of midnight. The bell chimed—a low, melodic toll—as he stepped inside