The Wistful Crossroads
The stone wept black oil. Elias Thorne wiped the viscous fluid from his thumb, watching it bead on the limestone floor of the crypt, a dark stain that refused to dry. He was thirty-four, an archivist of modest rank, and his hands trembled not from cold, but from the predatory focus of the saint’s remaining eye. The stone head, mounted high on a pedestal of cracked marble, tracked his movements...
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