The Pale Bridge
The road to the estate of Blackwood Manor was not a path but a wound, a jagged tear in the landscape that bled mud and gray stone into the sky. I walked it on a day when the air tasted of iron and wet wool, the kind of heavy, suffocating silence that precedes a storm or a funeral, though in this place, the two were often indistinguishable. My name is Elara, and I had come here to surrender the...
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