The Distant Temple
The ink on the page was still wet, glistening like a fresh wound in the parchment, and Elias Thorne looked at it with the weary affection of a man watching a child grow too tall for the doorframe. He was a scholar of the obscure, a curator of the forgotten, and in the high, dust-mote-filled air of his study, he held the only thing that had ever truly mattered: the Sigil of Aethelgard. It was...
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