The Golden Scar
The vial in your hand is cold, the glass slick with condensation that feels like sweat against your palm. You are Elias, thirty years old, a scribe of modest standing in the sealed monastery of St. Jude, and you hold this object as though it were a grenade rather than a gift. It is the year 1402, or so the Abbot claims, though the dates on the wall calendars have been scratched out for a...
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