The Faded Paradox
The snow fell in thick, grey sheets over the Abbey of St. Jude, muffling the sound of Thomas Bradshaw’s boots as he walked the perimeter of the prison yard. He was thirty years old, though the hollows beneath his eyes made him look a decade older. He wanted the promotion. He wanted the title of Chief Inquisitor, the warm chamber in the north wing, and the respect of the Bishop. All he had to do...
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