The Pale Garden

added blog Literature

2026-08-18 16:20:21 -

The Pale Garden

The fog did not drift into the valley of Blackwood Manor; it seeped up, like a breath held too long. I was seven years old. My name was Elias. The air tasted of iron and wet stone. We were the servants of the house, the unseen hands that kept the machinery of the noble blood running. But in the deep winter, when the masters slept or played their cold games in the great hall, we were the only...

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