The Golden Farce
The iron gate of the Abbey of St. Jude did not open so much as it sighed, a low, rusted exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of three centuries into the damp, twilight air. Elias Thorne stood before it, his hands trembling not from the biting November wind, but from the terrible, aching emptiness within his chest. He had come to seek forgiveness, or perhaps merely to die in the company of...
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