The Faded Chronicle
The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in a steady, gray sheet against the high, arched windows of the Monastery of Saint Jude, blurring the world outside into a smear of mud and stone. Inside, the air smelled of damp wool, old parchment, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Edward Ashworth stood before the high table, his hands trembling so violently that he could not hold his...
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