The Distant Nightmare

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2026-08-22 19:46:36 -

The quill slipped, dragging a streak of black ink across the parchment that looked less like writing and more like a fresh wound. Brother Elias sat in the damp cellar of the monastery, the stone walls sweating cold moisture onto his shoulders. He was forty years old, a scribe of modest reputation, and his hands were trembling not from fear, but from the sheer physical effort of holding the pen...

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