The Distant Ghost
The candle sputters, casting long, jagged shadows against the damp stone walls of the scriptorium, and you feel the cold seep into your bones, a chill that has nothing to do with the November wind howling outside the Abbey of St. Jude. Your hands, cracked and bleeding from the biting frost and the harshness of the iron gall ink, tremble as you press the quill to the vellum, the scratch of the...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima