The Faded Frontier
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended curtain of grey mist that clung to the limestone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude’s, a place where the air itself seemed to possess a heavy, viscous quality, tasting of old stone and the metallic tang of forgotten centuries. Sir Julian Thorne, a man whose hands were perpetually stained with the indigo and saffron of his trade, walked the...
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