The Distant Wound
The iron gate of the Blackwood estate groans against the rusted hinges, a sound like a deep, arterial tear in the silence of the morning, and you stand before it, your hands trembling not from the biting frost that clings to the ivy but from the terrible, heavy weight of the knowledge that has settled into your marrow like lead. You are Eleanor, daughter of the house, and yet you look at the...
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