The Pale Path
The ink moved before I touched the quill. I watched it bleed into the vellum, a pale, silvery line that defied the pigment in my pot, tracing a path that looked less like text and more like a vein of lightning frozen in time. It was the third night the Pale Path had appeared, and the third night I had scrubbed it away with vinegar and salt, my hands raw and trembling as I tried to erase the...
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