The Golden Farce
We stood in the antechamber of the Blackwood Palace, the air thick with the scent of wet stone and the metallic tang of old blood, while the rain hammered against the high, arched windows like a thousand frantic fingers begging for entry. Lord Silas stood before me, his back rigid, his shoulders hunched under the weight of a cloak that seemed to absorb the dim light of the gas lamps, and I...
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