The Golden Downtown
The iron gates of the Abbey of Saint Jude had not been opened in three centuries, yet the air within the stone courtyard did not smell of dust or decay, but of ozone and wet limestone, a scent that tasted of the moment before a lightning strike, a suspended breath held by the very bedrock of the earth. Elias Thorne stood before the heavy oak doors, his hands trembling not from the cold that...
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