The Faded Dust
The ink in the nib was drying, a black crust forming at the tip as I held the quill steady over the parchment, my fingers trembling not from the cold that seeped through the stone floors of the Royal Archive but from the sheer, terrifying weight of the final page of the Codex. I am Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, the Royal Archivist, and I have spent thirty years in this subterranean vault,...
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