The Golden Cellar
The parchment is heavy, heavier than it has any right to be, resting on the rough-hewn oak table where the damp of the cellar seeps up through the wood grain and into the paper fibers. I, Elias, scribe of the Abbey of St. Jude, hold a quill that feels like a splinter in my hand, trembling not from the cold but from the sheer, crushing weight of the words I am forced to transcribe. The Abbot, my...
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