The Faded Ruin
The ink on the parchment is black, but it looks like dried blood under the guttering light of the oil lamp. You hold the quill, your hand steady despite the tremor that has lived in your knuckles for three days. The document is a warrant, signed by the Magistrate, bearing the seal of the City of Aethelgard. It names you, Elias Thorne, as a heretic. It names you a thief of souls. It names you a...
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