The Iron Cross of Faith
The air in the village of Oakhaven was thick with the smell of burning peat and the metallic tang of blood. It was 1348, and the Black Death was not a disease; it was an apocalypse. The peasants huddled in their hovels, praying to a God who seemed to have turned His back on them, while the Inquisition's fires burned in the square, consuming anyone who dared to suggest that the plague was not a...
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