The Distant Garden
"You are to burn it," the Abbot said, his voice a dry rasp that seemed to scrape against the high, vaulted ceiling of the scriptorium, where the air hung heavy with the scent of decayed vellum and the cold, metallic tang of old dust. "The leaf is a forgery, a corruption of the sacred text, and your obedience to the decree has been tested beyond what the Order can bear." I stood before him, my...
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