The Golden Suspect
The stone floor of the cellar was wet, a slick, cold mirror that reflected the trembling hand of Brother Thomas as he held the quill. "It speaks again, Father," he whispered, his voice cracking in the stagnant air, "and it demands the fire." Abbot Hugh, seated on the overturned crate, did not look up from the ledger he was balancing; he simply turned a page, the sound of the parchment scraping...
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