The Distant Crown
The ink on your fingers is black as dried blood, and the parchment beneath your quill feels less like a page than a skin. You are Elias, a scholar of thirty-two years at the Abbey of St. Jude, and you are leaving the scriptorium for the last time. The Abbot’s voice still echoes in the stone corridor, a sharp crack of disapproval that severed the air between you. He called your inquiry into the...
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