The Distant Blade
The quill was wet, the ink black and thick as blood, and your fingers were stained to the knuckles. You had three hours left to finish the chronicle before dawn, a task that would secure the pension your wife needed for her cough, a cough that sounded like wet leaves scraping on stone. The Abbot lay on the floor of the scriptorium, his mouth open, his eyes fixed on the mirror in the corner. He...
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