The Wistful Petal
The ink was not merely a substance but a living thing, a viscous black tide that pooled in the brass troughs of Aldous Vane’s workshop, humming with a low, subsonic frequency that vibrated in the marrow of his bones. He stood alone in the center of the circular room, the walls lined floor to ceiling with shelves of parchment that smelled of dust and dried lavender, the air thick with the scent...
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