The Distant Journey
The ink in the Codex of Silence does not dry; it sinks, seeping into the vellum like blood into a wound, and I have spent twenty years feeding it my vitality to keep its pages legible. My hands, once steady enough to bind the loosest of scrolls, now tremble with a fine, persistent shiver that the cold of the archive cannot explain, a tremor that speaks not of the room’s chill but of the...
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