The Distant Promise
The banquet hall of Blackwood Manor smelled of roasted pheasant and old stone, a thick, cloying scent that seemed to settle in the lungs like ash, and Elias Thorne sat at the far end of the long oak table, his fingers wrapped tightly around a glass of water that had gone warm and flat, watching the Lord Blackwood carve a haunch of mutton with a precision that bordered on the surgical. The room...
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