The Pale Dance
Elara. The name was not spoken aloud, but it hung in the damp air of the scriptorium like the scent of rotting figs, summoned by the silence of the sleeping abbey. You are thirty-two, a scribe of the second order, and for the past six weeks you have been stealing hours from the dark to transcribe the final, forbidden chapter of the *Codex Aurea*. The abbot, Brother Thomas, believes you are...
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