The Distant Temple
The bell rang, not for the Angelus, but for the dead, and the sound cracked the silence of the cloister like a stone breaking ice. Elias, the abbot, stood by the well, his hands wrapped in rough linen, waiting for the water to still. It was the year of the pestilence, 1348, and the air in the monastery of St. Jude tasted of rot and wet ash. Three brothers had already been carried to the pit...
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