The Pale Mist
The quill scratched against the heavy, cream-colored vellum, a sound like dry bone rubbing against stone, and Elias Thorne watched as the ink bled not into the fiber of the page but into the pale, hairless skin of his right index finger, turning the whiteness there a bruised, translucent violet. He did not pull his hand away; he could not afford to, for the document before him was the final...
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