The Faded Shield
The ink in the vial is not black, but a deep, bruised purple that seems to hold the weight of the air in the small, windowless office. You are sitting in the chair that Dr. Aris has used for forty years, the leather creaking under the shift of your hip, and you are watching the seal on the envelope. It is a wax seal, red as a drop of old blood, pressed with the sigil of the University of St....
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