The Faded Masquerade
Thorne, you old fool, do you think the gate will open for a heretic’s son? The voice of Elder Halloway cut through the damp morning air, sharp as a chisel striking granite. I stood at the threshold of the abbey of Saint Jude, my boots caked in the black mud of the marshlands, and I did not answer. I had no time for their recriminations, nor for the heavy, suffocating weight of their judgment. I...
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