The Distant Affair

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2026-08-18 05:05:45 -

The ink on the parchment was not black but a deep, bruised violet, and it did not dry so much as it bled into the vellum, spreading like a wound that refused to close, and you held the quill with a grip so tight your knuckles turned the color of old bone, staring at the word that was your name, which was not a name at all but a seal, a binding, a chain forged from language and light, and you...

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