The Wistful Saga
The iron gate of the Blackwood estate groaned under the weight of the storm, a sound like a man clearing his throat before a death rattle. Elias Thorne did not flinch. He stood on the wet cobblestones, his back straight, his hands clasped behind him with a rigidity that suggested not confidence, but the brittle tension of a wire pulled to its limit. In his left hand, held close to his chest,...
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