The Pale Garden
The candle in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude burned with a low, sullen hiss, its flame trembling in a draft that seemed to originate from the very walls, and Elias, a thirty-four-year-old scribe whose lungs had long since ceased to be merely organs of breath and had become a site of chronic, metallic suffering, hunched over the vellum with a quill that felt less like a tool and more...
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