The Wistful Voyage
Act I In the damp stone of the Naples scriptorium, the air hung with the weight of wet ink and the low, grinding friction of quills against parchment, a sound that Enzo Rizzo had come to mistake for the heartbeat of the world itself. He stood before Abbot Matteo, his hands trembling not from the cold that seeped through his thin wool tunic, but from a primal, instinctual need that felt less...
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