The Pale Meridian
The ink was still wet on the parchment when I heard the footsteps in the corridor, heavy and deliberate, striking the flagstones with the rhythm of a man who had long since ceased to fear the dark. I looked up from my desk, my quill trembling in my grip, and saw Brother Thomas standing in the doorway, his face a mask of greyish exhaustion, his eyes fixed on the manuscript before me. He did not...
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