The Wistful Cipher
The air in the Great Hall of Ashworth Castle did not merely smell of roasted boar and spiced wine, but of a heavy, suffocating antiquity that seemed to press against the skin like a damp wool blanket, thick with the scent of beeswax, old stone, and the faint, metallic tang of impending dread that had settled over the court since the Duke’s sudden and unexplained paralysis. Margaret Holloway sat...
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