The Golden Farce
Thorne, the Abbot’s voice cut through the silence of the scriptorium like a blade through wet leather, stopping the scratch of Elias’s quill mid-stroke. Elias looked up, his ink-stained fingers trembling slightly as he met the gaze of Father Odo, a man whose face was carved from the same unyielding stone as the abbey walls. The request for permanent tenure, a simple plea to escape the crushing...
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