The Wistful Crossroads
The debt was forty silver marks. That was the number that weighed on your chest, a stone swallowed whole, sitting heavy in the pit of your stomach as you ground the oak gall. Twelve years old, and you knew the price of a man’s freedom better than you knew your own name. You were Thomas, the scribe’s apprentice, and your father’s hands were bound by iron and ink. The Abbot had called you to the...
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