The Wistful Skyline
The iron-bound ledger was heavy, its weight a physical anchor against Elias Thorne’s trembling palm, the leather spine cracked and stiff from decades of bureaucratic use. He stood in the rain-slicked courtyard of the manor, the stone flagstones slick with mud and the grey water of the downpour, the forged warrant clutched in his other hand like a talisman that had lost its power. The paper was...
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