The Wolf of Whitby Abbey
The moor wind did not howl; it whispered, the way old stones whisper when no one is listening. Thomas Blackwood knew this wind. He had grown up with it, breathing it in through the cracks of his family's crumbling manor, tasting it on his lips like the salt of a tear he could not shed. At twenty-four, he was a hunter without a cause. His father's debts had swallowed the estate, his mother's...
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