The Distant Nightmare

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2026-08-20 00:15:41 -

The ink is black, but it smells of copper. You know this. You have known it since the moment the quill first touched the vellum, a scratch that sounded less like writing and more like a bone breaking. You are standing in the Hall of Scribes, a place that does not exist on any map of London, let alone of the world you left behind three days ago. The air is thick, stale with the scent of old...

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