The Wound of Blackwood Hall
The mist clung to the Yorkshire moors like a shroud, thick and suffocating, as Elias Thornfield knelt before the squire at Blackwood Hall. His face, turned toward the dying fire, was a landscape of ruin—the left cheek hollowed and scarred, the right eye a milky void, the nose reduced to two dark apertures in flesh that looked more like wax than skin. The squire's wife had fainted when he first...
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