The Pale Letter
The ledger showed forty-two pages remaining, a number that felt less like a calculation and more like a countdown to the end of the world, each line item a small death waiting to happen in the cramped, candlelit scriptorium where Elias Thorne sat with his back against the cold stone wall, his fingers stained blue to the second knuckle, the ink drying on the vellum with a faint, persistent hum...
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