The Pale Echo
The parchment is heavy, Elias, heavier than the sin it contains. You feel the weight of it against your hip, a cold, rectangular slab of truth tucked beneath your wool tunic. It presses into your ribs, a constant, dull ache that mirrors the throb in your own chest. The Abbot’s voice still hangs in the air of the scriptorium, dry as the dust motes dancing in the shaft of afternoon light. He did...
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