The Pale Bridge
The sky above the Monastery of Saint Cuthbert did not darken with clouds, but with a silence so profound it felt like a physical weight pressing against the eardrums, a heavy velvet curtain drawn across the face of the world. Brother Thomas, a man whose mind had been his only sanctuary for thirty years, stood in the center of the scriptorium, the air thick with the scent of oak gall and drying...
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