The Distant Temple
The storm had not broken; it had merely changed its posture, crouching low against the grey slate roof of the sanctuary with a patience that felt less like weather and more like judgment. Inside, the air was thick, saturated with the scent of damp wool, old paper, and the metallic tang of fear that clung to the skin like a fine dust. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the circular chamber, his...
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