The Golden Echoes
The iron gate of the Abbey of Saint Cuthbert had not been opened in a century, yet it swung inward with a groan that sounded less like metal and more like the exhalation of a dying god. Sir Julian Thorne stood in the threshold, his hand still gripping the rusted iron, his knuckles white not from the cold which had nothing to do with it, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the moment. He was...
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