The Wistful Dinner
The air in the Great Hall of Blackwood Manor did not smell of wood or wax, but of stale ambition and the metallic tang of old money, a scent that had seeped into the very pores of the ancient oak table at the room’s center, a table so heavy and worn that it seemed less like furniture and more like a geological formation, a slab of history upon which the fate of Elias Thorne, a clerk of...
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