The Pale Path
The ink on the parchment was still wet, glistening like a bruise under the tallow light. Elara sat alone in the high tower of the Abbey of St. Jude, her fingers stained black from the nib, her heart a drum beating against the cold stone. Outside, the fog rolled in from the river, thick and gray, swallowing the village below. She was the Scribe, the youngest to ever hold the title, and she was...
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