The Distant Summer

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2026-08-23 06:29:28 -

The autumn of 1347 smelled of damp straw and the sharp, metallic tang of iron gall ink, a scent that Elias Thorne had come to associate with the quiet desperation of his own poverty. He counted the hours he had spent grinding the oak galls, twenty-two in total, his knuckles white around the pestle, the mortar worn smooth as a river stone from years of other men’s labor. It was a task of pure...

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