The Distant Legend
The ink is still wet on the vellum. You know the smell. It is a sharp, metallic scent, like blood left too long in the sun. You are in the scriptorium. The candles are burning low. Your hands are trembling, but you keep them steady. This is your duty. You are the Archivist. You serve the Bishop. You do not question. You only record. The parchment before you is blank. It is expensive. It is made...
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