The Faded Dust
The quill in your hand is made of raven feather, cut to a point so fine it could split a hair, and it rests in a bed of ink that smells of iron and old blood. You are Elias, twelve years old, a scribe of the third order at St. Jude’s Abbey, and you are holding the forbidden *Codex Aeterna* behind your back while the Abbot’s shadow stretches long across the stone floor of the scriptorium. The...
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