The Wistful Ashes
The iron gate of the Citadel of St. Jude did not creak, for it was oiled by the hands of men who understood that sound was a leak in the vessel of order, and as Elias Thorne stood before it, the rain slicking his coarse woolen cloak, he felt the weight of the silence pressing against his eardrums with a physical force that threatened to shatter the last fragile remnants of his sanity. He was a...
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