The Golden Crossing
The water in the cellar of the Abbey of Saint Jude was black and cold, rising past Elias Thorne’s knees with a slow, hydraulic inevitability. He clutched the vial of golden honey to his chest, the glass warm against his skin, humming a low, resonant note that vibrated in his teeth. Elias, thirty-five and a sergeant in the Duke’s guard, had spent the last three hours fighting the stone, shoring...
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