The Golden Harbor
"You must stop looking at the wall, Thomas." The Abbot’s voice was dry, like the sound of parchment tearing in a silent room. Thomas did not turn from the alcove. His back was to the superior, his shoulders hunched against the damp chill of the scriptorium, but his eyes were fixed on the patch of stone where the Golden Lichen pulsed. It was a small thing, no larger than a man’s palm, a cluster...
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