The Needle of Blackmoor Manor
The fog clung to the streets of Whitechapel like a shroud, thick and yellow with the effluvia of the Thames. Edgar Blackwood stood beneath the flickering gaslight of Commercial Road, his fingers worrying a small leather pouch at his belt. Inside it lay seven needles, forged from silver and wrapped in oilcloth, passed down through five generations of the Brotherhood of the Silver Needle. His...
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