The Silent Peak
The fog of London in 1884 did not merely drift; it clung to the skin like a damp shroud, smelling of coal smoke and forgotten sins. For Julian, the fog was the only thing that felt honest. He stood in the shadow of the ancestral manor, a skeletal structure of grey stone that seemed to feed on the misery of its inhabitants. Julian was a ghost in his own home, the disgraced son of a lineage that...
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