The Pale Banner
The soot of 1912 did not just sit on the surface of Blackwood Manor; it seeped into the very grain of the limestone, a grey veil that Elias Thorne knew by touch as well as by sight, his calloused palms sliding over the rough-hewn blocks that formed the skeleton of the house’s central spire. He was forty years old, a master mason whose hands were mapped with the white scars of a lifetime’s...
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