The Faded Sutra
The quill in Elias’s hand trembled, not from cold, but from the weight of the ink that had begun to seep through the parchment like blood from a wound. He stared at the margin of the page, where the illustration of a shepherd had mutated, the wool turning into a tangle of black, viscous tendrils that seemed to writhe under the candlelight. In the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude, the air...
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