The Pale Tale
The rain in the Black Forest did not fall so much as it hung, a grey, suffocating curtain that turned the path into a slurry of mud and rotting leaves, and Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old and trembling with a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature, clutched the letter to his chest as if it were a shield against the encroaching dark. The parchment was damp, the ink of his father’s...
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