The Wistful Saga
The ink had already begun to bleed into the pores of the old oak desk, a dark, wet stain that spread like a bruise under the pale, indifferent light of the library. Elias Thorne sat hunched over the manuscript, his fingers stained black to the knuckles, the smell of iron and rot heavy in the air. He was not writing; he was surrendering. Around him, the stacks of books did not stand upright but...
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