The Pale Verdict
The quill snapped against the parchment with a sound like a dry twig breaking underfoot, and in the sudden silence of the scriptorium, I heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of Gervais’s boots on the stone floor. He did not call my name; he simply stopped before my desk, his shadow falling across the half-finished illumination of the Psalms, and placed a single sheet of paper before me. It was a...
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