The Pale Dance

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2026-08-17 21:28:29 -

The Pale Dance

The ink was black. It was not merely dark; it was an absence, a void that drank the candlelight. Thomas stood before the mirror in the tower room, his hands trembling so violently that the quill snapped. He wiped the blood from his knuckles. The paper on the desk was blank. It had been blank for three days. He was a scribe. A lowly one. He served Lord Ashworth, a man whose smile was as brittle...

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