The Moss and the Monolith
The Blackwood Estate did not just sit upon the hill; it presided over it, a rotting crown of gothic spires and weeping willows. Silas walked the corridors with a lantern that cast long, dancing shadows against the peeling wallpaper. He was the last of the Blackwoods, a man whose only inheritance was a name that tasted of ash and a library of books that screamed when opened. Silas had discovered...
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