The Golden Echoes
The candlelight in the scriptorium of St. Jude’s did not flicker; it burned with a steady, predatory stillness that Elias had come to dread. He sat hunched over the vellum, the quill trembling in his ink-stained fingers, while the golden psalter lay open before him, its pages heavy with a weight that seemed to press down on his very bones. The ink he used was not merely iron gall and gum...
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