The Faded Root
The count of the vellum sheets had reached three hundred and twelve when the silence in the scriptorium became a physical weight, pressing against Elias’s eardrums like the deep water of a riverbed. He paused, the quill hovering above the page, the tip wet with a black ink that smelled of oak gall and iron, and looked up at the Abbot who stood at the far end of the room, his back rigid against...
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