The Wistful Voyage
The air in the cellar tasted of copper and old rain. It was a thick, suffocating weight that pressed against Eleanor’s lungs, making every breath a laborious negotiation with the dark. Above, the stone walls of the manor groaned under the assault of the siege, but down here, in the heart of the earth, the only sound was the wet, rhythmic dripping of water into a cracked clay basin. Eleanor sat...
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