The Golden Oath
The ink in the well had turned to a black, unyielding crust, a hard shell that cracked under the weight of Marco Lombardi’s quill. It was the year 1348, or so the calendar on the wall claimed, though the air in Naples tasted of rot and fever, and the narrow streets were so choked with the dying that time itself seemed to have lost its grip. Marco, a thirty-year-old scribe whose hands had...
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