The Golden Master
The bell tolled midnight. It was a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of the stone. Brother Thomas sat in the center of the refectory. The table was bare. The chairs were empty. The air was still. He held a quill in his hand. The ink was black. It was thick. It did not dry. He was the Archivist. His duty was to record. Every word spoken in this monastery was to be written...
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