The Golden Ritual
The damp in the cellar of St. Jude’s Abbey did not merely seep through the stone; it possessed a weight, a tangible presence that pressed against the lungs and settled into the joints like lead shot. I sat at the oak table, the ink in my quill freezing into thick, black rivulets, while the silence of the scriptorium above hummed with the low, rhythmic breathing of men who were dying. Brother...
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