The Wistful Letter
The iron gate groaned, a low, mournful sound that seemed to vibrate through the soles of Elias’s boots as he stood before the high, ivy-choked walls of Blackwood Manor. He adjusted the strap of his bag, feeling the familiar, reassuring weight of the sword hilt hidden within the canvas. It was a relic of a different life, a time when the world was smaller and the rules of engagement were written...
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