The Golden Echoes
The ink had begun to bleed into the vellum before the storm fully broke against the high, narrow windows of the scriptorium. Aldous sat hunched over the oak table, his breath shallow and ragged, fighting the ache that had settled deep in his chest like a stone dropped into a well. He was a man of letters, of precise margins and illuminated capitals, yet the text before him had become a chaos of...
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