The Distant Temple
The parchment was thin, the ink a dried, rusty brown, and the script was the Abbot’s own, a cramped and angry hand that left the impression of a man who had pressed the nib too hard, too many times, in too few years. You held it in the scriptorium, where the light from the high windows fell in sharp, dusty columns, illuminating the dust motes that swirled in the cold air like tiny, frantic...
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