The Wistful Silence
The clay vessel shatters against the stone floor of the scriptorium, and the sound is not a crash but a scream, a high-pitched wail that tears through the candlelight and settles into your bones like a splinter. You stand frozen, your hands still raised in the gesture of offering, while Abbot Thomas stares down at the broken shards with an expression of such profound, cold disgust that it feels...
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