The Wistful Saga

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2026-08-18 10:37:01 -

The Wistful Saga

The ink was blacker than the night outside. It pooled on the vellum, a dark eye staring back at Thomas Bradshaw. He held the quill with a grip that whitened his knuckles. The quill was a feather from a raven that had died in his garden. It had been dead for three days. The smell of rot was faint, sweet, and pervasive. It clung to the wool of his sleeve. It settled in the creases of his neck....

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