The Distant Clue
The iron key hangs at your throat, cold as a winter river, its teeth biting into the flesh of your neck with a precision that feels less like injury and more like inscription. You are in the great hall of the Whitmore estate, a place where the air is thick with the dust of centuries and the smell of damp stone, yet you are not entirely there. You are a ghost in the making, an exile who has...
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