The Wistful Cipher
The ink bled into the parchment like a wound that refused to clot, spreading in dark, capillary veins across the vellum until the words I had carved into my own flesh became indistinguishable from the stain. I was kneeling on the cold flagstones of the chapel floor, my knees grinding against the rough stone, while the air around me grew thick with the scent of ozone and rotting lilies. This was...
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