The Pale Path
The ink on the parchment did not dry so much as it sank into the vellum, a slow, dark bleeding that mirrored the ache settling in the joints of my left hand, a hand that had once moved with the swift, decisive grace of a man who believed he was carving the very bones of the world but now trembled with the faint, rhythmic shudder of a leaf caught in a stagnant, windless air. I stood before the...
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