The Distant Temple
The wax seal pressed against Elias’s palm like a coal that had not yet turned to ash, a cold burn that seeped into the bone and refused to yield to the wind whipping off the steppe. He had walked for three days since leaving the Abbey of St. Jude, his boots worn thin, his mind fixed on the singular, burning need to prove to Abbot Thorne that he was not merely a pair of hands for grinding ink,...
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