The Golden Myth
The ink on the ledger page was still wet, a dark smear against the vellum that Elias Thorne had spent the last three hours tracing with a reed pen. He worked in the lower archive of the Abbey of St. Jude, a stone-walled cellar where the air tasted of damp mortar and old paper, and his breath hung in the cold as a thin white mist. Outside, the wind battered the high, narrow windows, a relentless...
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