The Distant Journey

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2026-08-23 10:53:07 -

The dampness in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude did not smell of mildew, as one might expect in a stone cellar carved into the hillside, but of old blood and dried lavender, a scent that Elara had come to associate with the specific, grinding weight of her own devotion. She sat at the long oak table, her back straight as a reed, her quill hovering over the parchment of the *Liber...

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