The Distant Ghost
The ink on your quill is black, but it smells of iron and old blood, a scent that has seeped into the pores of your skin over the last three years of service in the Royal Archive of Aethelgard. You are Eamon, a scribe of thirty-two years, and your hands shake as you trace the ledger entries for the city’s grain stores, a tremor that is not from age but from the low, constant hum of the stones...
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