The Faded Portrait
The ink will not dry. You stare at the quill, the nib trembling against the parchment, a black tear swelling at the tip, refusing to set. It is a minor thing, a bureaucratic nuisance in the Great Hall of Aethelgard, where the stone breathes and the air tastes of iron filings and old blood. Around you, the other scribes work in silence, their hands moving with the mechanical precision of...
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