The Distant Temple

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2026-08-22 16:37:59 -

The quill trembled in my hand, the nib scratching against the vellum with a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. I was thirty-two, and my fingers were stiff from the cold, yet the ink flowed with a warmth that defied the winter air of the scriptorium. Thomas was dying in the infirmary three corridors east, his breath a ragged thing that I could almost hear through the thick stone...

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