The Wistful Mountain
The bell does not ring, but the air in the scriptorium tightens around your shoulders like a noose of cold, stagnant incense, and you know with the bone-deep certainty of the condemned that the cycle has begun again, that the ink in your well is not merely pigment but the distilled memory of every error you have ever made in the service of the Abbot’s impossible text. You sit in the corner of...
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