The Golden Echoes
The leather satchel struck the flagstones with a dull, final thud, a sound that seemed to absorb the ambient chill of the crypt before Elias Thorne even registered the impact of his own arrival. He stood in the nave of the Abbey of St. Jude, the air thick with the scent of wet limestone and the sweet, cloying rot of lilies that had long since died on the altar, his lungs burning with a dry,...
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