The Wistful Saga
The heavy oak door of the manor creaked open with a sound like a dying breath, admitting the damp chill of the Yorkshire moors into the warm, dust-mote air of the study. Elias Thorne stood on the threshold, his shoulders hunched against the wind that had been howling all afternoon, his face a map of deep, etched lines that spoke of years spent hunched over parchment and stone. He was a man who...
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