The Golden Song
The candle guttered in the draft, casting long, jagged shadows against the stone walls of the scriptorium. Elias Thorne pressed his quill into the parchment, the nib scratching a sound that felt too loud in the silence. He was not praying. He was decoding. The manuscript, known as the *Cantus Aureus*, lay open before him, its vellum yellowed and brittle, smelling of dust and old blood. Elias...
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