The Distant Temple
The heavy oak door of the manor house groaned in the wind, a sound like a long, dying breath that had been held for too long. Inside, the air was stale, thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, metallic tang of iron. Thomas Whitmore stood in the center of the grand study, his hands resting on the polished mahogany desk, his fingers tracing the grain of the wood as if it were a map of a...
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