The Pale Path
The iron gates of the Citadel of St. Jude did not groan in the wind, for the wind there was dead, sucked dry by the sheer, vertical ambition of the stone walls that rose like broken teeth into the perpetual gray of the northern sky, and it was beneath this oppressive, silent architecture that Sir Thomas Alcott stood, his hands bound not by rope but by the invisible, crushing weight of his own...
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