The Faded Sutra
The leather-bound book sat in your hands, its spine cracked and weeping a dark, viscous fluid that smelled of iron and old rain. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a man who has spent the last decade filing other people’s secrets in a basement in London, and now you are standing on the threshold of your father’s estate in the Welsh borderlands, holding the only thing he left you. The...
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