The Wistful Throne
The fever broke at dawn, but the silence it left behind was heavier than the sickness itself. In the stone ward of the Abbey of St. Jude, where the air smelled of damp wool and antiseptic, a young monk named Thomas lay on his back, staring at the vaulted ceiling. His hands, once steady enough to script the Psalms with the finest ink, now trembled with a fine, ceaseless vibration. He held a...
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