The Pale Bridge
The candlelight in the cellar of Blackwood Keep did not flicker; it burned with a steady, malevolent stillness that seemed to drain the oxygen from the air, leaving Elias Thorne to breathe in the dust of six years’ obsession. He held the parchment map, its edges crumbling into ash against his calloused fingers, the ink shifting and swimming like living things as he traced the route to the...
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