The Golden Suspect
The stone of the monastery of St. Jude did not merely stand against the wind of the high pass; it breathed, a slow, tectonic respiration that Sir Aldric of the Black Shield felt in the marrow of his own bones as he stood before the sealed iron gates, the year 1348 pressing down upon him with the weight of a decade of silence. He was forty years old, a man whose face had been mapped by the same...
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