The Pale Verdict
The oak tree stood in the center of the manor’s courtyard, its branches stripped bare by the winter wind, looking less like a living thing and more like a skeletal hand reaching for a sky that had forgotten how to be blue. Elias Thorne sat in his carriage, the leather seats creaking under the weight of his stillness, watching the bark peel away in long, dry strips that flapped against the trunk...
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