The Pale Door
The parchment lay flat on the oak table, the ink still wet and black as a bruise, and I signed my name at the bottom with a hand that did not quite belong to me. It was a simple document, a request for leave from the Abbot’s office, and the paper smelled of the damp cellar where the vellum was cured, a cold, animal scent that seemed to seep into the pores of my skin. I rolled it tight, sealed...
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