The Pale Meridian
The stone of the Priory did not merely stand; it breathed, a slow, calcified respiration that pulled the dampness from the air and settled it into the bones of every man who walked its corridors, a silent, heavy weight that pressed against the chest like a second skin, and in this breathing stone, Thomas Bradshaw sat alone in the refectory, his fingers tracing the grain of the oak table where...
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