The Pale Fracture
The quill was heavy in Elias’s hand, a weight of black feather and bone that seemed to pull his wrist down toward the parchment. He held it suspended over the blank page, the tip trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing density of the air in the scriptorium. It was the year 1402, and the Guild of Scribes had marked his family’s ledger with a red cross, a symbol of debt that could...
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