The Golden Song
The parchment was heavy, stiff with the damp of the cellar where it had been kept, and the ink had bled into the fibers, turning the words into a dark, muddy smear that was hard to read. You stood in the mud of the road to the Abbey, your boots squelching with every step, while your father, a man whose hands were permanently stained with the black dust of the scribe’s craft, held the document...
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