The Wistful Saga
The ink on the seal was red, a vivid, arterial smear against the white wax, a brand of ownership that felt less like a signature and more like a scar. Elias Thorne sat in the quiet of his study, the room thick with the scent of aged paper and the cold, metallic tang of the rain that lashed against the high windows of Millhaven. He was a man constructed of rigid lines and silent endurance, a...
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