The Pale Shadows
The tallow candles in the great hall of the Blackwater Valley mill burned with a steady, yellow warmth, their light pooling on the long oak table where the harvest feast was laid out in all its rustic abundance, the smell of roasted lamb and spiced ale hanging thick in the stone-walled air, a sensory testament to the year’s successful yield that Elias Thorne had worked for with his own bleeding...
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