The Golden Song
The feast in the high hall of the stone abbey was not a celebration of joy but a ritual of endurance, a long, unbroken thread of noise and heat that seemed to weave itself into the very marrow of the stones, where the air hung heavy with the scent of roasted lamb, beeswax, and the sharp, metallic tang of old blood that never quite washed out of the mortar. Brother Silas sat at the far end of...
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