The Distant Blade
The rain had not stopped for nine days, and the water in the moat around the Whitehall estate had risen to a level that touched the iron gates, turning the once-stern boundary between the manicured gardens and the wild, weeping woods into a shimmering, liquid mirror. Elias Thorne stood on the balcony, his hands resting on the cold stone railing, watching the mist swirl against the...
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