The Pale Meridian
The ink on the parchment does not dry; it bleeds. You press your thumb against the wet line, a signature of allegiance, and feel the cold viscosity seep into the whorls of your skin, a physical intrusion that mirrors the spiritual weight of the oath you have just sworn. You are a man of the Order of the Silver Scale, a keeper of the archives in the high tower of Saint Jude’s, and your hands,...
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