The Distant Nightmare
The carriage wheels rattled against the cobblestones, a rhythmic, grinding sound that seemed to echo the friction in my own chest. We were traveling north, toward the Abbey of St. Jude, a place where the air was said to taste of iron and old prayers. I sat in the corner, my coat too heavy for the season, my hands tucked into the pockets as if trying to hide them from the world. The driver, a...
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