The Golden Echoes
I left the scriptorium as the bells rang for Vespers, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and old vellum. My hands trembled, not from the cold, but from the weight of the final page I had just copied. I needed the pension. Forty years of hunched back and ink-stained fingers had earned me nothing but a promise of rest that the Abbot kept shifting like sand. The *Codex Aureus* was my...
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