The Pale Altar
The quill was a piece of goose bone, worn smooth by three years of Thomas’s thumb, its tip frayed into a dry, useless brush. He held it over the vellum, the ink pot trembling in his other hand, a small pool of black reflecting the single tallow candle that guttered in the scriptorium. The *Liber Vitae* was not merely a book; it was the ledger of the living, the proof that the Abbey of St. Jude...
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