The Golden Myth
The rain did not fall so much as it was driven horizontally through the shattered stained-glass windows of the Whitmore manor, a gray, relentless force that erased the boundary between the rotting interior and the stormy night beyond, and in that desolate, echoing hall where the chandeliers hung like skeletal hands reaching for a ceiling that had long since collapsed, Elias Thorne stood with...
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