The Wistful Witness
The ink is wet. It bleeds into the parchment like a wound. My name is Elias. I am the scribe. I am the monster they whisper about in the cloister’s shadows. They say my hands are not human. They say I am a demon bound in flesh. They are wrong. I am only tired. I am only old. The Abbot stands before me. His face is a mask of stone. He holds a quill. It is broken. The tip is splintered. He looks...
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