Behind him stood Tom Harper, a wiry young man with a nervous twitch in his fingers. Tom clutched an iron pickaxe, his knuckles white against the handle. His scarf fluttered as he glanced around, eyes wide beneath a mop of unkempt brown hair. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, boots crunching the frostbitten grass. The moor stretched endlessly around them, a sea of darkness broken only by the abbey's ruins. Every rustle of the wind made him flinch, as if expecting something to lunge from the shadows.
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