The Distant Whispers
The quill was slipping in my hand, the nib catching on the coarse vellum as I tried to form the letter ‘A’ for *Abbot*, but my fingers were too numb to control the tremor. The scriptorium was freezing, a damp cold that seeped through the floorboards and settled in the marrow of my bones, contrasting sharply with the feverish heat that had begun to rise in my chest. I had been writing for six...
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