The Distant Temple
The deed was not where it should have been, and Elias Thorne knew it with the immediate, cold certainty of a man who has spent twenty years listening to the silence of dust. It lay atop a stack of water-damaged parish records from the winter of 1342, its vellum brittle as a dead leaf, the ink faded to a ghostly brown that his failing eyes struggled to decipher. He was forty years old, a clerk...
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