The Faded River
The banquet hall of the Whitmore estate smelled of burnt sugar and damp wool, a thick, cloying atmosphere that seemed to press against the windows, sealing the room in a suffocating amber light. Professor Elias Thorne stood near the heavy oak table, his fingers trembling slightly as he adjusted the collar of his shirt, a gesture that felt more like a defense mechanism than a fashion choice. He...
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