The Golden Crossing
The fog that rolls off the River Ouse does not simply obscure; it devours, swallowing the sharp angles of the cathedral’s flying buttresses until they are nothing but gray smudges in the distance. You stand at the edge of the priory grounds, your feet numb in boots that have seen better decades, watching the mist coil around the ancient oak trees like a living thing. It is early morning, the...
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