The Wistful Cipher
The ink on the parchment was not black, but a deep, arterial red that seemed to pulse under the candlelight. You held the quill with a grip that had long since bled the softness from your fingertips, the knuckles white and swollen. In the dim study of the Blackwood estate, the air was thick with the scent of dried lavender and old paper, a perfume of decay that had become your second skin. You...
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