The Wistful Crossroads
The iron lock lay in Sir Aldric’s palm, cold and slick with condensation, its teeth broken and jagged where the hammer had struck it hours ago. It was a small thing, no larger than a man’s thumb, yet it held the weight of the entire Abbey of Saint Jude, a weight that had pressed against his ribs since the moment the Grand Master had sealed the door behind him. Outside, the wind howled against...
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