The Wistful Show
The iron gates of the Citadel of Saint Jude groaned open, a sound like the tearing of old silk, and Elias Thorne stepped onto the cobblestones with the weary, practiced gait of a man who had spent forty years measuring the weight of other people’s sins, realizing in that single, breathless moment that the air here smelled not of incense or holy water but of rust, stale beer, and the faint,...
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