The Distant Legend
Elias. The name hung in the damp air of the chapel, called out by a voice that was not unkind but carried the weight of a ledger. It was the Elder, Thomas Bradshaw, standing in the doorway where the smell of wet wool and old stone met the scent of the chisel dust that coated Elias’s throat. Bradshaw did not come in. He never came in. He stood on the threshold, a man whose boots were polished to...
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