The Distant Ghost
The iron gates of the Priory of Saint Jude groaned open with a sound like the tearing of old silk, admitting the morning fog and the heavy, wet scent of turned earth, as I stood there with my hands bound in rope and my heart beating a frantic, arrhythmic drum against my ribs, ready to be led into the darkness where the true heretics were kept. I was a boy of fourteen, barely tall enough to see...
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