The Golden Suspect
The feast at Blackwood Hall had lasted for three days, a relentless torrent of roasted swan and spiced wine that stained the mouth and clouded the mind. In the great hall, the air was thick with the scent of tallow candles and unwashed bodies, a heavy, suffocating warmth that clung to the skin like a second layer of clothes. Elias Thorne sat in the shadows near the heavy oak door, his hands...
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