The Distant Legend
The ink was not black, but the deep, bruised purple of a plum left too long in the sun, and it did not dry. It pulsed against the parchment with a slow, rhythmic thud, like a second heart beating beneath the skin of the page. Sir Thomas Ashworth held the quill with a hand that trembled not from age, though his knuckles were swollen and mapped with the gray veins of a man who had seen too many...
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