The Pale Meridian

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2026-08-22 20:59:54 -

The Pale Meridian

The light in the scriptorium was failing, turning the dust motes into suspended coins. You were forty-two, a scribe of no particular rank, and your hands trembled as you ground the ink. The scent of wet wool and fear hung heavy in the air, a smell that had settled into the stone walls since the Duke’s new guard arrived. Men with steel gauntlets posted notices of "loyalty audits" on the oak...

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