The Pale Shadows
The iron gates of the Abbey of Saint Jude did not open so much as they groaned, a low, tectonic shudder that traveled up the cobblestones and into the bones of the men who stood before them, a sound that seemed to originate not from the hinges but from the earth itself, which had grown tired of holding the weight of so much unspoken sin. Silas Vane stood at the front of the procession, his...
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