The Faded Chronicle
The heavy oak door of the scriptorium did not creak when Marcus closed it, but the silence that followed was so thick it felt like a physical weight against his eardrums. He stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the smell of drying vellum and iron gall ink, and held up the leather satchel he had brought from the lower archives. It was a simple thing, stitched with rough hemp thread,...
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