The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-23 14:55:36 -

The quill in Sister Agatha’s hand was a raven’s feather, stiff at the base and soft as a whisper at the tip, and it trembled against the vellum with a rhythm that matched the thudding in her temples. It was the feast of St. Jude at the Abbey, and the scriptorium was thick with the smell of roasting lamb, stale wine, and the sharp, metallic tang of oak gall ink, a scent that seemed to cling to...

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