The Distant Promise

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2026-08-18 10:35:23 -

The ink on the parchment was not ink, but a dried blood that had forgotten how to clot. It sat on the table like a black scar, pulsing faintly in the candlelight, waiting to be read. Arthur Vane held his quill, the feather trembling against the heavy, suffocating silence of the chamber. He was a scribe, a man of words and wax seals, yet here he was, standing before the High Inquisitor, a figure...

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