The Pale Letter
The parchment lay upon the desk, its surface a terrifyingly uniform expanse of pale, unmarked vellum. I held the quill, the ink pot, and the seal, yet my hand trembled as I refused to sign the warrant for the execution of a minor scribe. It was the winter of 1342, and the light from the single tallow candle in the archive room flickered against the stone walls, casting long, jagged shadows that...
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