The Faded Chronicle
The heavy oak door of the manor groaned against its iron hinges, a sound that seemed to drag through the very marrow of Thomas Bradshaw’s bones as he stepped from the grey afternoon into the damp, stone-walled corridor, the smell of wet earth and ancient candle wax clinging to his wool uniform like a second skin. He had walked for three days on the muddy tracks that wound through the misty...
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