The Distant Legend
The brass key in your hand is cold, not with the chill of the October air, but with a specific, heavy dampness that seems to seep up from the metal itself, a wetness that has no business existing on a dry surface. You stand at the iron gate of the Blackwood estate, the rusted hinges shrieking a thin, high note as you force the latch, the sound cutting through the silence of the moor like a...
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