The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-23 21:18:30 -

The Wistful Ashes

The Abbot’s voice cut through the silence of the scriptorium like a knife through wet wool. "Elias." Elias did not look up from the parchment. His quill was steady, the ink black and fresh, mixing with the scent of oak gall and dried mint that hung in the stone air. He was thirty years old, though his hands looked older, mapped with the faint blue veins of a man who had spent a decade hunched...

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