The Faded Root
The parchment lay on the oak table, its surface slick with a moisture that should not have existed in the dry air of the scriptorium. It was a list, written in my own hand, but the ink was still wet, pooling in the grooves of the parchment like blood from a fresh wound. I picked it up, the paper soft and yielding, and read the single entry: *Elias, Scribe, Confess to the Omission of St. Jude.*...
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