The Wistful Petal
The rain did not fall so much as it was hurled against the stones of the monastery courtyard, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the mud into a slurry of silt and broken straw. Elias stood in the center of the chaos, his back rigid against the wind, his hands trembling not from the cold but from the sheer, vibrating terror of what he held. Clutched in his left hand was the cloak, a heavy...
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