The Golden Visit
The ink on the parchment was not merely black but a deep, absorbing void that seemed to drink the light from the high windows of the scriptorium, and Thomas Bradshaw sat in the center of that silence, his quill poised above the vellum as if it were a surgical instrument, waiting for the precise moment when the breath of the scribe would align with the beat of his own heart, which had slowed to...
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