The Pale Bridge
The ink was not black, nor was it blue; it was the color of dried blood mixed with ash, a hue that seemed to absorb the candlelight rather than reflect it. Elara sat in the center of the circular room, the stone floor cold against her bare feet, and watched the symbol take shape on the parchment before her. It was a character from the Old Script, a glyph for *binding*, yet in her hands it...
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