The Wistful Throne
The iron gate shrieks as you pull it open, a sound like a nail being drawn slowly through wet wood. You stand in the courtyard of the Whitmore Estate, the air thick with the scent of rust and damp earth. It is 1924, and the world is changing, but here, in the shadow of the old mill, time feels like a heavy blanket draped over your shoulders. You are not human, not entirely. You are a spirit of...
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