The Pale Garden
The candlelight in the cellar of Blackwood Manor did not so much illuminate the room as it surrendered to the shadows, flickering weakly against the damp stone walls that smelled of rot and old wine. Elias Thorne, a man of forty whose hands trembled with a palsy that had no name in the medical texts he had read by lamplight, stood before the heavy oak table where Lord Blackwood sat like a...
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