The Faded Frontier

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2026-08-22 00:41:28 -

The ink on your thumb has dried into a permanent stain, a dark crescent moon that you cannot wash away. It is a mark of the Guild, a brand of service and silence. You sit in the corner of the scriptorium, the air thick with the smell of oak gall and ground bone. Outside, the rain hammers against the stained glass, blurring the saints into weeping smears of color. You are holding the fragment....

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