The Faded Chronicle
The rain did not fall so much as it was pressed against the leaded glass of the high tower windows, a relentless, gray membrane sealing the world outside from the warmth of the hearth inside where Julian sat, his hands stained not with ink, but with the deep, arterial red of the beet he had been roasting for the third hour. He was the Keeper of the Archives, a title that in this crumbling,...
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