The Golden Scar
Elias. The name hung in the scriptorium air, sharp and cold, before Abbot Cuthbert’s hand struck the desk. The sound was a dry crack, like a branch snapping under a winter boot. Elias flinched, his quill skittering across the vellum, leaving a jagged, black tear in the silence. He did not look up. To look up was to admit defeat, and Elias had not come to the monastery of St. Jude to be...
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