The Golden Maze
The ink on the parchment was still wet, glistening like a bruise in the candlelight, as I pressed my thumb against the seal to ensure it held. It is the fourteenth of November, in the year of our Lord 1348, and I write this from the cellar of the Black Friars, where the damp air tastes of rot and old stone. I am Thomas Ashworth, once a man of some standing in the city of Canterbury, now a...
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