The Pale Path
The stone of the manor did not merely stand; it breathed, a slow, rhythmic expansion and contraction that Elias Thorne felt in the soles of his boots as he stood alone in the great hall, the silence of the place pressing against his eardrums with the weight of a physical force. He was forty-two years old, a sheriff of the county for fifteen years, a man who had built his life on the rigid...
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