The Wistful Saga
The rain did not fall; it invaded. It pressed against the stained glass of the St. Jude’s Chapel with the tenacity of a parasite seeking a host. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool, old stone, and the faint, metallic tang of blood that had dried centuries ago in the mortar. Elias Thorne stood before the altar, his fingers trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing...
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