The Golden Maze
The year was 1204, and the frost had bitten deep into the stone floors of the Abbey of Clonmacnoise. Eamon sat in the scriptorium, the air thin and cold, his breath visible as he hunched over the vellum. He was forty years old, a man whose face was already mapped with the lines of early aging, his eyes strained from the relentless focus required by the gold leaf and the ink. On his neck hung...
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