The Wistful Witness
The autumn rain in 1348 did not wash the world clean; it merely slicked the mud, making the rot slide easier. You stand in the Abbot’s cell, the air thick with the sweet, cloying scent of gangrene and wet wool. Brother Elias, you are forty, and your lungs burn with a fire that has no fuel. You came here for a confession, a specific admission of who poured the arsenic into the holy water vials,...
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