The Pale Banner
The dream was a house made of ink, where the walls were not plaster but dense, wet script that bled into the floorboards, and Elara stood in the center of a room that smelled of ozone and old blood, holding a single sheet of paper that weighed more than a stone, the text upon it writhing like a nest of pale worms, and she knew, with the absolute certainty of a prophet who has seen the end of...
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