The Wistful Incense
The stone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude did not weep, nor did they bleed, but on the morning the iron gates shattered, the silence within them cracked like old ice under a hammer. It was a sound that traveled not through the air, but through the marrow, a dull thud that settled into the bones of every soul who remained. The world outside had ceased to be a place of harvest and tithes; it had...
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