The Wistful Voyage
"Do you feel it, Thomas?" The voice was low, rough with the dust of the old world, but it cut through the silence of the chapel like a blade. I didn’t look up from the manuscript I was copying. My quill scratched against the vellum, a dry, rasping sound that seemed to echo in the small, airless room. "I feel the cold," I said. "And I feel my hands. They are shaking, Master Aldric. They will not...
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