The Wistful Throne
The stone crept up Elias’s wrist as he broke the bread, the crust cracking with a sound like a knuckle popping. He stood in the refectory of St. Jude, the air thick with the scent of yeast and old damp, watching the grey veins spread across his forearm. Forty years he had served the Inquisition, forty years of hunting heresy in the shadows of Europe, and now the plague had come to this sealed...
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