The Pale Path
The iron of the handcuffs bites into Thomas’s wrists, cold and immediate, as you fasten the metal link behind his back, the sound of the clasp echoing sharply in the hollowed-out shell of the Château de Vaucluse. The ballroom, once a place of polished mahogany and gilt mirrors, is now a graveyard of shattered glass and splintered wainscoting, the air thick with the scent of wet plaster and old...
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