The Golden Quest
The ink is dry, or it is not; the difference is a matter of seconds, and seconds are what the Abbot does not have for us. Thomas Bradshaw held the quill suspended over the vellum, the nib trembling not from the cold that seeped up through the flagstones of the scriptorium, but from the sheer, technical weight of the secret he had just committed to memory. It was a hidden folio, tucked behind a...
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