The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-17 22:00:32 -

The air in the chapel tasted of wet stone and old blood. You stand in the center of the nave, your hands bound by chains that are not iron, but woven from the thorns of a black briar bush. They cut into your wrists, leaving no blood, only a dull, aching pressure that feels like a memory you cannot quite place. You are alone. The candles have long since burned to nubs of white tallow, and the...

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