The Golden Oath
The ink is dry, Brother Elias, or is it merely drying? The question hung in the cold, damp air of the scriptorium, a small, sharp thing that cut through the rhythmic scratch of quill on parchment. Elias did not look up from the psalter he was copying, his eyes fixed on the golden leaf of the illuminated initial, the gesso still tacky under his fingertips, a texture that felt like skin stretched...
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