The Distant Temple
The feast hall smelled of roasted goose and stale beer, a cloying sweetness that coated the back of my throat. I sat at the bottom of the long oak table, my left hand tucked beneath the tablecloth, hidden from the eyes of the brothers who feasted above me. My name is Elias Thorne, and I have served as a scribe for the St. Jude’s Order for twenty years, a position that pays in silence and a...
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