The Pale Letter
The ink dries before you can blink. That is the first rule of the Scriptorium. You know it by the smell, a sharp, metallic tang that coats the back of your throat like blood. It does not smell like iron, exactly. It smells like rust, like old pennies left in the rain. You smell it on your fingertips. You smell it in the hollows of your knuckles. You have been here for three years. Or perhaps it...
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