The Faded Shield
The air in the basement of the old Whitmore estate did not smell of damp stone, as one might expect from a cellar buried deep beneath the English countryside, but of old sweat and the metallic tang of fear, a scent that had soaked into the very fibers of the heavy wool rug and the peeling wallpaper, binding the room in a suffocating embrace that seemed to press against Thomas’s lungs with the...
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