The Golden Myth
The quill slips in your hand, the nib dragging a jagged tear across the vellum, and Brother Anselm does not look up from his cup of small ale. "You are hesitating, Thomas. The ink dries fast in this cold, and the Bishop’s patience is slower still." You stare at the wet black line, a vein of darkness pulsing on the parchment, and you see your own face reflected in the sheen of the pigment,...
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