The Golden Mirror
1342, the 14th of November. The frost has come early this year, biting through the chinks in the scriptorium’s stone walls with a hunger that feels personal. I am Elias, a scribe of thirty-two years, and my hands will not stop shaking. I want to copy the *Golden Mirror* manuscript before the cold cracks the ink and turns my work to sludge. But I cannot. The Abbot has locked the door. He sits in...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews