The Wistful Witness
The dream begins not with light, but with the smell of wet stone and ancient dust, a scent that has seeped into the marrow of your bones since childhood. You are standing in the nave of the Abbey of St. Jude, a structure so old that the moss on its walls seems to breathe with the rhythm of centuries. It is the year of the King’s Peace, or what passes for it in these borderlands, where the rain...
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