The Pale Letter
The rain fell in a cold, unbroken sheet across the courtyard of Thorne Manor, slicking the cobblestones until they gleamed like wet iron under the grey sky. Elias Thorne stood with his back against the stone wall, his sword arm hanging limp and trembling at his side, the metal of the scabbard cold against his damp trousers as he watched the figures approach through the mist. He was forty years...
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