The Pale Meridian

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2026-08-17 22:09:55 -

The Pale Meridian

The frost had not yet melted from the slate roof of the scriptorium, a white shroud that seemed to hold the cold in place rather than let it escape. Silas Vane sat at his desk, the parchment before him a pale, waiting skin. He was a man of few words and many hands, the latter stained with oak gall ink that no amount of lye could fully scrub from the cuticles. He worked for the Abbey of St....

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