The Wistful Dinner
The winter solstice feast at the Abbey of St. Cuthbert was not a celebration of joy, but a grim ritual of survival, marked by the clatter of wooden spoons against stone troughs and the low, guttural murmurs of men who had forgotten how to speak softly. Twelve-year-old Thomas sat hunched over his desk in the scriptorium, the air thick with the smell of beeswax and the damp, rotting scent of the...
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