The Faded Paradox
The parchment lay on the table, stiff as a board, bearing the Bishop’s seal in red wax and a list of debts that made Thomas’s stomach turn. He was thirty years old, a scribe for the cathedral, and the list accused him of stealing the gold reserves meant for the city walls. The ink was fresh, the accusation blunt, and the air in the scriptorium smelled of tallow and old fear. Thomas did not look...
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