The Wistful Atlas
The iron door of the Blackfriars Monastery groaned open with a sound like the tearing of old skin, admitting a gust of wind that smelled of wet stone and the rotting leaves of late autumn, a scent that settled deep in the lungs of Elias Thorne and seemed to settle there permanently, becoming part of his own marrow as he stepped across the threshold into the dim, vaulted hallway where the only...
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