The Pale Meridian
The ink dries before you can blink. You watch the black letters settle into the parchment, permanent as stone, unyielding as the law. You are Thomas. You are the scribe. Your hands tremble, not from cold, though the draft cuts through the wool of your doublet, but from the weight of the words you have just transcribed. They are not your words. They are the words of Lord Blackwood. They are the...
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