The Distant Clue
The fire in the hearth of the Hall of St. Jude did not burn; it screamed. It was a low, guttural thrumming, a sound that vibrated in the teeth of every soul present in the vaulted chamber. The air was thick with the smell of roasted lamb, heavy cream, and the metallic tang of old blood that never quite washed out of the stone floorboards. Outside, the winter wind clawed at the leaded windows,...
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