The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-20 11:43:29 -

The air in the Guildhall of St. Jude’s smelled of wet wool, tallow, and the metallic tang of old coins. It was a feast, though not of food. The tables were long oaks, scarred by centuries of ink and knife tips, and upon them lay not plates but ledgers, bound in cracked leather, their pages fluttering like the wings of trapped moths in the draft that crept up from the crypt below. Elias Thorne...

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