The Faded Sutra
The quill snapped against the vellum, leaving a jagged black tear in the parchment, and Elara did not wipe the ink from her fingers but watched it dry into a crust that resembled dried blood. It was the year 1342, and the wind outside the Abbey of St. Jude was not merely cold but a physical weight, pressing against the narrow windows of the scriptorium with the force of a battering ram, forcing...
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