The Pale Garden

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2026-08-21 09:21:02 -

The Pale Garden

The carriage wheels screamed against the cobblestones of the lower city, a jagged, metallic shriek that tore through the thick, coal-heavy fog of the industrial dusk as we left the gates of the Whitmore Estate, a place where the air itself tasted of rust and old blood. I looked at my father, the Duke of Ashworth, sitting rigid in the leather seat opposite me, his face a mask of such profound,...

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