The Faded River
The banquet hall of the old estate, now a hollowed-out museum of silence, was set with plates that had not seen the touch of a living hand in three centuries, the silver tarnished to the color of storm clouds, the crystal glasses catching the moonlight that seeped through the high, arched windows like a pale, accusatory fluid. In the center of this frozen tableau sat Elias Thorne, a man whose...
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