The Faded Frequency
The ink on the parchment did not dry; it bled. It spread in thin, capillary lines, forming shapes that had no place in the will of the Duke of Ashworth. I sat in the scriptorium, the air thick with the scent of lamp oil and old dust, and watched the letters twist into something else. The hum was there, low in my molars, a vibration that felt less like sound and more like a pressure building...
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