The Wistful Voyage

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2026-08-17 14:25:01 -

The ink was black. It smelled of iron and old blood. I held the pen. My hand did not shake. This was the first time in years that my hand had not shaken. The room was small. Stone walls. Cold light from a high window. The air tasted of damp wool and fear. I sat at the desk. The parchment was white. It stared at me. It was a void. It was a mouth. I looked up. The Archivist stood by the door. He...

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