The Pale Echo
The ink was still wet on the parchment when the door swung open, shattering the silence of the scriptorium. You did not look up. Your hands, stained black to the second knuckle, continued their steady, rhythmic motion, the quill scratching a sharp, final note onto the vellum. Outside, the wind howled against the stone walls of the monastery, a low, mournful sound that seemed to vibrate in your...
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