The iron gate of the Hollows stood open, a jagged mouth in the twilight. You do not remember crossing it. You only remember the weight of the hammer in your hand, heavy as a heart stone, and the sound of the ring, sharp and singular, cutting through the fog. The village below was asleep, or dead; it was difficult to tell the difference in this place where the mist clung to the cobblestones like...
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, persistent mist that clung to the stones of the Abbey and the leather of Thomas’s coat. He stood in the courtyard, the iron gate groaning behind him, listening to the silence that followed the bell. It was a silence with weight, a physical thing that pressed against his eardrums. For thirty years, Thomas had served the Order of the...
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