The Distant Ghost
The ink in your well has turned to black blood, and you know, with the cold certainty of a man who has spent forty years binding words to parchment, that the *Liber Vitae* will not be finished by dawn. You are Elias, the scribe of the Abbey of St. Jude, and your hands, which once moved with the precision of a surgeon’s, now tremble with a palsy that mirrors the slow decay of your mind, a...
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