The Distant Wound
The ink was still wet on the vellum when the bell began to toll. It was not the deep, resonant boom of the great cathedral clock that governed the waking hours of the city, but a thin, high-pitched shriek that seemed to originate from within the walls of the Archive itself. I did not look up. I could not. My hand was steady, the quill moving in the precise, unyielding loops that the Order...
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