The Pale Exile

σε πρόσθεσε στο Literature

2026-08-18 02:27:59 -

The Pale Exile

The ink on my hands has dried into a crust of black soil, a second skin that I can no longer wash away. It is the smell of iron and old parchment that fills the air of this place, a scent that hangs heavy in the rafters of the scriptorium, mingling with the damp rot of the oak floorboards. I am here to copy the words of the dead, to transcribe their memories into the living paper, for the Abbot...

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