The Golden Suspect
The iron bolt in the door was cold, slick with the damp that seeped through the stone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude. I held it for a moment, feeling the weight of the mechanism, the sheer physical resistance of the lock, before I turned the key. The year was 1342, and I was thirty years old, an inquisitor of the Order, sitting in the interrogation hall with my brother Thomas across the table....
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