The Faded Quadrant
The air in the dining room of the Whitmore estate hung thick and cloying, a physical weight that pressed against the eardrums, saturated with the scent of roasted pheasant, waxed mahogany, and the faint, metallic tang of old fear. It was a celebration, ostensibly, a gathering of the county’s finest to mark the retirement of Captain Elias Thorne, a man whose spine had been straightened by...
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