The Wistful Letter
The ink was still wet when Lady Vane stepped into the cellar, her heels clicking a sharp, arrhythmic beat against the damp flagstones that sounded like knuckles rapping on a coffin lid. Elias Thorne did not look up from the ledger, his pen hovering over the page, the nib trembling slightly not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the debt that had dragged him into this rotting...
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