The Distant Promise
The iron gate of Blackwood Manor did not creak. It swung open with a silence that felt heavier than sound, revealing the wet, black mud of the drive. Elias Thorne stood on the threshold, his knuckles white around the glass vial in his pocket. The liquid inside was a deep, arterial red, thick as syrup. It was the last of his brother Pádraig’s blood, drawn the morning the fever took him, a final,...
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