The Faded Frequency
The ink in your quill has dried, but the stain on your finger remains, a dark crescent that mocks the whiteness of the parchment you are forbidden to touch. You are Elias Vane, and you are not merely a prisoner of the stone walls that enclose the Great Library of St. Jude’s, though the chains around your ankles are cold and heavy, biting into your flesh with every shuffling step. You are a...
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