The Pale Shadows
The ink was not merely wet on the parchment; it was alive, a black sludge that pulsed against my quill like a failing heart. I was not writing history, as I had sworn to the Magister, but rather a confession, a desperate, scribbled map of my own unraveling. The candle in the iron sconce burned low, its flame trembling in the draft that swept through the high, vaulted windows of the university...
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