The Wistful Ashes
The bell of St. Jude’s did not ring; it screamed, a jagged tear in the fabric of the afternoon that silenced the pigeons in the square below. Inside the cloister, the air was thick with the scent of damp stone and old fear, a heavy, suffocating blanket that pressed against the lungs. Aldous, the newest of the novices, stood at the edge of the refectory, his hands trembling not from cold, but...
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