The Golden Quest
The ink freezes in the well before I can even touch the quill, a thick, black sludge that resists the nib like a wound refusing to close. It is the winter of 1342, and the cold has seeped into the bones of the monastery, settling in the joints of the stone walls and the marrow of my own aging limbs, but it is not the physical cold that chills me, nor the gnawing hunger that has hollowed my...
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