The Golden Visit
The iron seal on the gate of Blackwood Manor did not rust, though the hinges wept a slow, black tears of decay into the moss below. It was a sigil of twisted vines and a hollow eye, etched with such precision that the metal seemed to breathe in the stagnant air. Elias Thorne stood before it, his hand resting on the pommel of a sword that had not tasted blood in forty years. He was a man carved...
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