The Gilded Cage of Red Clay
The humidity of the Mississippi Delta was a physical weight, a wet blanket that smelled of river mud and slow decay. Elias stood on the porch of the Beauchamp manor, watching the Spanish moss hang like grey shrouds from the cypress trees. He was a Blackwood by blood, but a ghost by status—the secret son of a man who owned half the county and none of the mercy. For twenty years, Elias had played...
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