The Faded Masquerade
The iron gate of Blackwood Manor groaned against its rusted hinges, a sound that Elias Thorne had learned to interpret not as decay, but as a challenge. He stood in the mud, his clerical coat damp with the November rain, clutching a leather satchel that contained the only thing that mattered: the deed to the estate, and the signature of the man who would buy it. Elias was thirty years old, and...
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