The Distant Temple
"You’re bleeding," Thomas said, his voice flat and dry as the parchment he held. "Or is that the ink?" Elara looked down. The wool of the cloak was dark, not with age, but with a fresh, wet sheen that seemed to pulse against her ribs. It was the same tattered, blood-stained garment they had pulled from the deepest vault of the Monastery of St. Jude three weeks prior, the one the Abbot had...
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