The Wistful Skyline
The fog in Valerius did not roll in; it seeped, a gray miasma that tasted of wet stone and old paper, settling into the joints of Elias Thorne’s knees as he hunched over the scriptorium desk. He was forty, a scribe of modest means whose hands were permanently stained with the indigo-black ink of the Skyline Codex, a fragmented text that Julian had bequeathed to him three years prior, along with...
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