The Distant Promise

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2026-08-23 19:57:38 -

The fog did not roll in; it exhaled. It pressed against the high, narrow windows of the Abbey of Saint Jude like a living thing, gray and cold and smelling of wet stone and old rot. Elias clutched the leather-bound ledger to his chest, his knuckles white, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that fogged the air before him. He was thirty years old, a scribe of modest reputation in Venice, but...

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