The Pale Path
The ink in the scriptorium did not behave like ink. Aino Makinen, thirty-two, pressed her quill into the vellum, the nib scratching against the hide with a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. She was a senior scribe at the Abbey of St. Jude, a position she had secured through years of arduous labor, her wages long in arrears but her spirit unbroken by the debt. The Bishop had promised...
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