The Pale Tower
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a silence so profound it felt like a physical weight pressing against the stone walls of the abbey. Inside the scriptorium, where the air was usually thick with the scent of oak gall ink and parchment, there was only the absolute absence of sound. Brother Thomas sat at his high desk, his quill suspended in mid-air, the tip dry and black. He had been...
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