The Golden Quest
The mud on the road from the lowlands had turned to a slick, black slurry by the time Elias Thorne reached the iron gates of Blackwood Manor, a place that stood isolated against the grey November sky like a clenched fist. He was thirty-two years old, a scribe by trade and a refugee by circumstance, fleeing the plague-ridden villages where the air tasted of rot and the living moved with the...
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