The Distant Affair
The ink does not come from the well; it comes from you. You press the nib to the vellum, and a thin line of red seeps from the cut on your thumb, mixing with the black to form the letter *A*. The scriptorium of St. Jude is cold, the air thick with the scent of ozone and old blood. You are Elias, thirty-two, a scribe bound by debt to this crumbling monastery, and you are holding a shard of the...
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