The Wistful Throne
The ink was not dry on the mandate when Elias pressed his thumb into the wet black, leaving a smudge that mirrored the bruise forming on his knuckle from the cold. He stood in the doorway of the monastery of Saint Jude, the snow hissing against his boots as the heavy oak door groaned open. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of tallow and damp wool, and the silence was so complete it felt...
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