The Faded Ruin
The ink on the parchment is still wet, a black smear against the parchment that smells of iron and rot, and you hold it in your trembling hands as you step out of the cathedral doors into the grey morning of 1342. You are Elias, thirty years old, an inquisitor of the Holy Office, and the letter in your hand accuses your own father, the Bishop of this city, of heresy, a crime punishable by...
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