The Golden Song
The ink was bleeding. Elias wiped his thumb across the vellum, smearing the gilded initial of the psalm into a brown smear that looked like a bruise. He stared at the stain, his breath held tight in his chest, counting the seconds until the Abbot’s footsteps echoed down the corridor. Three days. He had three days until the solstice, and the manuscript of the Golden Song was not finished. The...
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