The Golden Mirror
The road to the Abbey of Saint Jude did not so much end as dissolve into a mist that tasted of wet stone and ancient, forgotten grief. Elias Thorne walked with the heavy, deliberate gait of a man who carried the weight of the world not on his shoulders but in the hollows of his ribs, a weight that had settled there like silt in a stagnant river, thick and cold and impossible to dislodge. He was...
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