The Wistful Crossroads
The ink weighed exactly four ounces, a precise measure that Thomas checked with the brass scale before he dared to dip his quill. In the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude, the air was thick with the smell of lampblack and damp wool, a scent that had seeped into his robes over twenty years of service, yet this morning it tasted of ash. He had woken at the third hour, gasping as if he had been...
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