The Wistful Saga
The parchment wept, a slow, viscous exudation of dark iron-gall ink that bled into the vellum like a bruise forming under the skin, and Thomas Bradshaw, twelve years old and hollowed out by the damp chill of the scriptorium, watched the stain spread with the terrified fascination of a man watching a crack widen in the foundation of his house. He had been assigned the illumination of the...
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