The Wistful Silence

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 18:07:22 -

The ink was wet. It gleamed on the parchment. Black. Thick. It smelled of iron and old blood. Silas stood at the desk. He was a scribe. He was good at his job. His hands were steady. They were also shaking now. The Hall of Records was cold. Stone walls. High ceilings. Dust motes danced in the light from the high windows. The light was grey. It did not warm. It only revealed. "Read it," the...

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