The Wistful Crossroads
The roasted swan sat in the center of the Abbot’s table, its skin glistening with a glaze of honey and cloves, while the air in the refectory hung thick with the scent of roasting fat and the quiet, desperate hunger of the brothers who stood in the shadows of the side aisles. Brother Thomas, a thirty-two-year-old scribe whose fingers were perpetually stained black with iron gall ink, watched...
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