The Golden Scar
The sky above the Abbey of St. Jude cracked like old bone. It did not thunder. It did not rain. It simply split, a jagged fissure of absolute void opening across the noon, swallowing the light. Thomas Whitmore stood in the courtyard, his fingers digging into the rough wool of his cloak. He was a man of the order, a seeker of the hidden text, a detective of the divine. His duty was to find what...
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