The Wistful Crossroads
The blood is the only language Blackwood understands. You know this because you have bled for it, drop by drop, into the rotting floorboards of the east wing. Elias Thorne, thirty-two, border warden of a manor that is slowly drowning in its own insolvency, presses a rag against his left hand. The fracture in the ulna, sustained in a fall during the last inspection, throbs in time with the...
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