The Faded Dust
The gate of Thorne Manor groaned against its iron hinges as Elias held the heavy oak door open, the late afternoon sun cutting through the dust motes that hung suspended in the air like a frozen storm. He stood there, thirty-two years old and wearing the field uniform of the Royal Signals, a sealed glass vial clutched in his left hand so tightly that the knuckles had gone white. The vial...
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