The Distant Temple
The ink is dry. You check it with your thumb. It smears. A black streak runs down your wrist. You wipe it on your robe. The stain remains. You are the Scribe. You are old. Your hands shake. The candle gutters in the draft. The wind howls outside the stone walls. It sounds like a wolf. It sounds like a man. You hold the quill. It is heavy. It is made of feather. It is not a sword. You cannot cut...
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