The Distant Temple
The rain fell in sheets of gray slate, turning the cobblestones of the old quarter into mirrors of broken sky. Thomas Bradshaw walked with his head down. His boots were heavy. They were caked in mud that smelled of wet iron and old blood. He was a man of the law. Or he had been. Now he was just a man chasing a ghost that wore his own face. The city of Ashworth was not a city anymore. It was a...
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