The Pale Banner

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2026-08-22 18:30:06 -

The Pale Banner

The quill is cold, a sliver of black bone pressed against the wet, trembling flesh of your thumb. You hold it over the vellum, the tip hovering a hair’s width above the parchment, waiting for the ink to flow. It does not. The tower room is a tomb of silence, the air so dry it cracks the skin on your lips, and the winter wind hammers against the narrow slit of the window like a prisoner...

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