The Faded Alibi
The banquet hall of the Abbey of Saint Jude was a cavern of stone and shadow, lit by a thousand tallow candles that burned with a steady, hungry glow. You sat at the high table, your hands clasped in your lap, the fingers white-knuckled against the rough wool of your robe. The air was thick with the smell of roasting boar, stale beer, and the metallic tang of old fear. You were the Archivist,...
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