The Faded Ruin
The ink on your hands is not merely black; it is the condensed memory of a thousand silent screams, a viscous fluid that binds the soul to the page even as it rots the flesh, and you know this because you have spent thirty years pressing your palms against the cold, unyielding surface of the parchment, waiting for the words to appear, waiting for the justice that the Council promised would...
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