The Wistful Saga
The rain lashed against the high, stained-glass windows of the Abbey, turning the grey stone of the cloister walls into a slick, weeping canvas. Thomas stood in the center of the refectory, his knuckles white around the hilt of a rusted dagger, watching the shadows lengthen. It was not a fight of steel, but of wills. The air was thick with the smell of wet wool, stale bread, and the sharp,...
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