The Wistful Saga
The quill snapped. Ink bled across the parchment. It was black. It was wet. It looked like a vein cut open. Elias stared at the stain. He did not move. His hand trembled. The tremor was not fear. It was rage. Or perhaps shame. The candle flickered. The flame was low. It danced in the draft. The draft came from the door. The door was open. The night air was cold. It smelled of damp earth. It...
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