The Golden Suspect
The ledger of the Abbey of St. Jude had not been balanced in forty years, a silence so profound it seemed to curdle the air within the scriptorium where Elara sat, her fingers stained with the iron gall of a script that was slowly eating away the parchment. She held the codex not as a scholar holds a text, but as a miser holds a gold coin, her knuckles white against the leather binding, her...
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