The Distant Promise
The ink was not merely black, but a profound, absorbing void, a viscous substance that seemed to drink the light from the tallow candles and hold it hostage within its glossy sheen, and as Elias Vane traced the final, trembling curve of the sigil upon the parchment, the air in the cramped, cellar-dwelling study thickened with the scent of ozone and dried lavender, a perfume that had no place in...
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