The Faded Dust
The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the cobblestones outside the scriptorium still wept, reflecting the sullen amber of the tallow lamps that lined the high, vaulted ceiling. You sat at the heavy oak desk, your hands trembling not from the chill that seeped through the stone floor, but from the sheer, suffocating weight of the parchment before you. It was a manuscript, or perhaps a...
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