The Golden Oath
The morning light in the scriptorium was not light at all, but a thin, grey veil that hung over the vellum, filtering the world into a state of suspended animation. Elias stood at the heavy oak desk, his fingers stained with the rust-colored ink of his trade, staring at the gold leaf that shimmered on the capital letter of the psalm he was illustrating. It was a small, intricate thing, a leaf...
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