The Pale Door
The feast was a cacophony of clattering silver and the heavy, cloying scent of roasted swan, a sensory assault that seemed to vibrate in the teeth of every soul present in the great hall of Ashworth Manor. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the far end of the long oak table, his fingers tracing the rough, frayed edge of his cuff, a gesture that had become as habitual as breathing in the quiet, dust-moted...
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