The Wistful Voyage
The iron seal of the Abbey of St. Jude was not a gate but a wound, a jagged tear in the fabric of the world where the cold breath of the outside air met the stifling, incense-drenched warmth of the cloister, and it was here, in this threshold of shadow and stone, that Elara stood with her hands pressed flat against the rough-hewn granite, feeling the vibration of a bell that was not a bell, a...
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