The Wistful Asylum
The departure from the abbey grounds was not a farewell in any conventional sense, but a severing, a clean cut made by the cold steel of necessity against the soft, rotting flesh of memory. Elias Thorne stood at the iron gate, his hands gloved in leather that had long since lost its suppleness, turning the latch with a sound like a bone cracking. Behind him, the silhouette of the old priory...
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