The Distant Blade
The candlelight in the great hall of St. Jude’s Abbey did not flicker; it held a steady, accusatory glare against the vaulted stone ceiling, illuminating the dust motes that danced like the souls of the dead in the stagnant air. Forty years old and serving his twentieth year under the black cowl, Elias Thorne felt the devotion to the Order not as a spiritual comfort but as a physical ache, a...
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