The Pale Verdict
The argument did not begin with a shout, but with the sharp, wet sound of a page being torn. Brother Thomas stood in the scriptorium, his fingers stained black with oak-gall ink, watching Abbot Cael rip the final folio from the medical manuscript. The air in the room was thick with the scent of beeswax and old paper, a smell that had once comforted Thomas but now felt like a suffocating shroud....
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