The Faded Frontier
The stone was cold in Elias’s palm, a slab of grey quartz no larger than a brick, and it hummed against his skin like a plucked string. He sat in the damp dark of the Abbey cellar, his knees drawn up to his chest, the smell of wet limestone and old rot thick in his throat. Above him, the floorboards creaked under the weight of Brother Thomas, the Abbot, who had come down to collect what was not...
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