The Pale Letter

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2026-08-22 19:46:44 -

The Pale Letter

The ink had not yet dried when I heard the scratch of a quill that was not mine. I was hunched over the *Liber Vitae*, the vellum stiff with cold, my fingers stained black to the knuckles as I copied the names of the deceased for the Abbey of St. Jude. It was the year of our Lord 1342, and the winter had settled into the stone walls with a weight that pressed against my eyes. I wanted only to...

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