The Pale Dance
The ledger is heavy. Heavier than it should be for a book of paper and vellum, as if the words inside have mass. Elias holds it in the vault, the candlelight trembling against the stone, and he watches the pale moss creep up his wrist. It is a fungus, the abbey’s oldest secret, a bioluminescent growth that feeds on falsehood. He has been lying to himself for three years, and the moss knows. He...
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