The Pale Path
The ink was not merely written upon the parchment; it had grown there, a black fungus spreading from the center of the page like a bruise that refused to heal, until the words themselves became indistinct, smudged into a grey mist that offered no meaning, only a suffocating weight. I held the scroll in my hands, my fingers trembling not from the cold of the ancient library, but from the sheer,...
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