The Pale Verdict
The damp does not merely settle in the scriptorium of Saint Jude; it breathes, a cold, wet exhalation that rises from the flagstones and clings to the vellum like a second skin, eroding the ink of any history that has not been sanctioned by the Abbot’s seal. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a scribe whose hands are permanently stained with oak gall and whose lungs have begun to ache...
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