The Distant Whispers
The gatehouse stood at the edge of the black forest, a square of grey stone that seemed to drink the light. Inside, the air tasted of damp moss and old iron. Elias stood by the window, his hand resting on the cold sill. He was a man of the wall. He had grown up here. The stones were his bones. The mortar was his blood. He had served the Abbey for thirty years. Thirty years of locking the heavy...
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