The Gilded Elixir
London, 1888. The fog clung to the cobblestones like a shroud, and in the gaslit corridors of Blackwood Manor, Lord Edmund Ashworth sat before his mirror and traced the line of his own aging face. Sixty years old, and his skin already bore the creases of a man twice his age. The physicians called it a constitutional weakness. Edmund knew the truth: he was born into the wrong century, into a...
0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 6 مشاهدة 0 معاينة