The Pale Letter
The quill slips from your trembling hand, the ink bleeding into the parchment like a dark wound that refuses to clot, and you are already awake, the cold sweat of the dream still clinging to your skin as the first grey light of October filters through the high, arched windows of your scriptorium. You are Elias, forty years of your life spent in the service of the Abbey of St. Jude, and for the...
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