The ink has dried, but the paper still smells of the damp wool of my cloak and the bitter, metallic tang of the tallow candle that burned out three hours ago. I am writing this by the pale, indifferent light of a moon that seems to mock the smallness of our world, sitting in the corner of the scriptorium where the air is thick with the dust of centuries and the silent, heavy breath of the...
The candle guttered, casting long, trembling shadows against the oak paneling.
"Is it done, Brother?"
The voice was thin. It scraped against the silence like a nail on slate.
Thomas did not turn. He remained hunched over the ledger, his quill scratching a rhythmic, dry cadence into the vellum. The scent of ink and old dust hung heavy in the air, a physical weight that pressed against his lungs....
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