The Golden Echoes
"Elias." The name hung in the cold air of the scriptorium, sharp as a chisel striking iron. I did not look up from the vellum. My quill was loaded with ink, a heavy, black weight in my hand, and the stroke I was drawing needed to be straight. Brother Anselm’s voice was not a command, but a warning, the kind of low, dry rasp that preceded a beating. I kept my eyes on the letter *a*, shaping its...
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