The Wistful Letter
The black ichor oozed from the mortar joints at a rate of three inches per hour, a viscous, tar-like substance that smelled of wet copper and old blood. Elias Thorne counted the drips against the stone floor of the cellar, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps as the cold dampness of Blackwood Keep seeped into his bones. He was thirty-four years old, a Sergeant in Lord Valerius’s garrison,...
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