The Pale Verdict
The ink on the parchment did not dry so much as it bled, seeping into the rough fiber of the vellum until the letters swelled like bruises, dark and purple, and Elara stood before the great oak table in the center of the scriptorium, her hands trembling not from the cold that bit at her fingers through the thin wool of her sleeves, but from the terrifying weight of the silence that pressed...
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