The Golden Oath
The smell of boiled turnips and damp wool hung in the air of the scriptorium, a thick, cloying miasma that seemed to seep into the very stones of the abbey, coating the tongue with a flavor that was neither sweet nor savory but something distinctly earthly and decaying, a taste that reminded me of the soil from which we had all been dug up and forced back into the rigid, upright posture of...
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