The Wistful Throne
The stone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude did not merely stand; they breathed, a low, rhythmic thrumming that Elara felt in the marrow of her bones long before she heard it in her ears, a vibration that tightened the muscles of her chest as she approached the scriptorium door in the autumn of 1342. She was thirty years old, her hands stained permanently with oak gall ink and pumice, and for a...
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