The Wistful Petal
The bell in the tower does not ring for the hour. It rings for the debt. You know this because you have heard it every night for thirty years, a bronze groan that shakes the dust from the rafters of your study. You are a scholar of the old rites, a keeper of the library that sits beneath the abbey church, a place where the air smells of damp stone and the slow decay of parchment. Your name is...
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