The Distant Temple
The count was three sacks of barley, two of oats, and one of rye, weighed against the iron scale in the chapel’s cold stone floor. You were twelve. Your father’s hands had just gone still, and the ring on your finger was already hot, a small, burning coal that whispered of debt. The air smelled of wet wool and old blood, the scent of the chapel that had held your family’s sins for a century....
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