The Golden Scar
The road to the Abbey of St. Jude was a ribbon of mud that twisted through the grey mist. Thomas walked it with the heavy, rhythmic step of a man who has carried a load for too long. His hands were stained not with ink, but with the black, viscous oil of the printing press. He was a clerk. A lowly functionary of the Word. He wore the rough wool of the common order, and his eyes were downcast,...
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