The Pale Path
The bell of St. Jude’s Cathedral did not ring to mark the hour, but to mark the death of a certainty. It was a sound that tore through the thin fog of the valley, a sharp, metallic shriek that vibrated in the marrow of the bones of those who stood within the stone walls. Old Thomas Bradshaw, the Keeper of the Archives, felt the tolling as a physical blow to his chest. He was a man carved from...
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