The Pale Dance
The iron gates of the Abbey of St. Jude were not merely closed but fused, the metal twisted into a shape that defied the logic of hinges and locks, a scar of blackened steel against the pale, weeping stone of the courtyard where Elias Thorne stood, shivering not from the biting November wind but from the sudden, terrible realization that the silence surrounding him was not empty but heavy, a...
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