The Pale Garden
The ledger lay on the desk, its leather cover soft as skin, worn smooth by the hands of Elias Thorne over twenty years of service. It was the only physical proof that the Blackwood Estate had not always been a sanctuary of noble purity, but a fortress built on the backs of the exploited. Elias adjusted his spectacles, the glass catching the dim light of the archive room, and traced the faded...
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