The Wistful Saga
14th of November, 1342. The ink is cold in the well, a black stillness that mirrors the dread settling in my chest, and I find that my hand trembles so violently the quill scratches a jagged line across the vellum, a wound in the page that I cannot wash away. I am Elias, a scribe of no particular renown, thirty years old and burdened by a debt that has swallowed my brother, Thomas, whole. The...
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