The Golden Maze
The ink in the well was not black, but a deep, arterial red that pulsed with a rhythm distinct from Elias Thorne’s own fading heartbeat. It was the year of our Lord 1240, and the high tower of the Abbey of St. Jude stood isolated against the gray, churning sky, a needle piercing the storm clouds that had sealed the valley below in a shroud of sleet. Elias, fifty-two years old and gaunt as a...
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