The Pale Tale
The quill felt heavy, its nib clogged with a residue that was not quite ink, but something thicker, colder. You held it between your thumb and forefinger, the skin of your hand already stained black to the knuckle, and looked at the parchment before you. The *Codex Palidus* lay open, the vellum brittle with age, the letters sharp as knives. You wanted to finish the translation by the autumn...
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