The Wistful Silence
The table in the Great Hall of Blackwood Manor groaned under the weight of roasted pheasant, honeyed apples, and silver tankards, a feast laid out for the harvest that Elias Thorne, Sergeant of the County Constabulary, viewed with the cold appraisal of a man calculating the cost of his own survival. He was thirty-four years old, with hands that had broken bones and eyes that had seen the worst...
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