The Pale Letter
The seal is broken. You hold the parchment in your hands, the wax cold and brittle beneath your thumbs, the ink still wet with a sheen that catches the dim light of the scriptorium, and you feel the weight of the silence that has settled over the stone walls of the archive like a burial shroud, a silence that is not empty but full of a terrible, humming anticipation that vibrates in the marrow...
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