The Distant Temple
The frost did not merely settle upon the windows of the Blackwood manor; it grew, a crystalline ivy that crept inward with a slow, deliberate hunger, freezing the ink in Elias Thorne’s pen before the nib could even touch the paper. He sat in the library, the room he had claimed as his office for the week, and stared at the blue-white lattice forming on the glass, knowing with a cold, clinical...
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