The Distant Nightmare
The cup is empty, Elias, and you know it is empty. Brother Thomas stands over you, his shadow falling across the damp flagstones of the cellar, blocking the single shaft of light that pierces the gloom from the window above. He does not look at your face; he looks at the parchment in your lap, the *Liber Vitae*, the final chapter of which you have been tasked with copying before the winter...
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