The Distant Temple
The bell tolled the hour, a dull, wooden thud that vibrated in the floorboards of the scriptorium. You sat in your stall, the air thick with the scent of oak gall and iron gall ink. Your quill hovered above the vellum, trembling slightly. It was a simple sentence, a litany of praise, yet your hand refused to obey. You were not a scribe of the first rank, but a prisoner of the archive, bound by...
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