The Faded Alibi
The ink is dry, but the walls are not. You have been in the cellar for three days, counting the cracks in the limestone as if they were the teeth of a hungry god, and the silence here is so heavy it presses against your eardrums like deep water. You are Elias, a scribe of forty years, and you are dying of thirst. The debt that bound you to Lord Blackwood’s manor for two decades was supposed to...
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