The Pale Verdict
The bell rings. It does not chime. It screams. A jagged, iron shriek that tears the silence of the scriptorium. You flinch. Your hand jerks from the quill. The ink bleeds. A black tear runs down the parchment, a wound that will not close. You stare at it. The stain spreads. It looks like a bruise. It looks like blood. You are Elias. You are a scholar. Or you were. Now you are a ghost in a house...
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