The Pale Door
The departure from the Abbey of St. Cuthbert’s was not a scene of violent rupture but a slow, grinding exhalation of breath that seemed to last for hours, the air in the cloister thick with the scent of damp stone, decaying incense, and the metallic tang of old blood that clung to the very pores of the walls. Thomas Bradshaw, a man whose mind had once been a sharp, glittering blade capable of...
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