The Distant Temple
The air in the cellar of the old manor house did not smell of damp earth or rotting wood, but of yeast and warm honey, a thick, cloying sweetness that coated the back of Wren’s throat as he sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor. It was the feast of St. Jude, the patron of lost causes, and the air outside the heavy oak door was screaming with the wind, yet down here, in the belly of the...
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