The Faded Alibi
The ink in my well had turned the color of old blood, a thick, viscous sludge that resisted the nib of my quill as I pressed it against the parchment. I was Elias Thorne, a scribe of forty years, and for the first time in two decades of service to the Crown, my hand did not tremble from the cold damp of the scriptorium, but from a rage so cold it burned in my marrow. Before me lay the...
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