The Golden Crossing
The gate will not hold, Brother Thomas, and you know it. The voice of Abbot Cuthbert did not rise, nor did it lower; it simply occupied the air of the scriptorium with the weight of damp stone, a bureaucratic assertion of fact that left no room for argument, for mercy, or for the trembling hand of the man who held the small, warm stone in his pocket. Thomas Bradshaw, thirty years old and a...
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