The Pale Exile
The road to Blackwood Manor was not merely a path but a wound in the earth, a long, jagged tear of red clay that wept under the relentless, drizzling rain which had persisted since the autumn equinox, a sorrowful sheet of grey water that turned the world into a blurred, drowning dream where the boundaries between the living and the dead grew thin as cobweb and brittle as old bone. Thomas...
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