The Golden Myth
The great hall of Blackwood Manor did not smell of decay, as one might expect from a structure that had stood on the moors for three centuries, but rather of beeswax, old paper, and the faint, metallic tang of iron that lingered in the air like a memory of blood, a scent that permeated the very stones and settled deep into the lungs of those who dared to linger within its walls, where the...
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