The Golden Harbor
The quill tip, heavy with iron gall ink, trembles against the parchment, a black thread pulling itself taut as you force the letter *g* into the margin, the stroke thick and wet, bleeding into the fiber like a wound that refuses to clot. You are Elias, thirty-two years old, your fingers stained permanently black from the waist down, and you are here in the scriptorium of the Abbey of Saint Jude...
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