The Faded Quadrant
The old chapel of St. Jude’s sat in the valley like a broken tooth, its roof long since surrendered to the rot, leaving the stone skeleton exposed to the indifferent rain. Elias Thorne, a man whose face had been carved by the same winds that stripped the trees, stood at the threshold, his boots caked in the red clay of the hillside. He was a soldier in the old guard, a title that had outlived...
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