The Wistful Throne
The quill in my hand was worth three shillings, a sum that would have bought a week’s bread for a laborer in the lower town, yet I held it as if it were a bone I had pulled from the earth, trembling slightly under the weight of its potential. The light in the scriptorium was failing, the autumn sun having dipped below the slate roof and leaving only the grey, damp gloom that settled into the...
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