The Golden Crossing
The candle flame in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude trembles, not from the draft, but from the weight of the silence that has settled over the stone walls. You are Elias, a monk of forty-five years, and your hands, which have spent three decades in the rigid discipline of copying the *Liber Mortis*, now betray you with a palsy that the abbey’s medical records refuse to acknowledge....
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