The Faded Chronicle
You are not a scribe anymore, Elias. You are a man with ink on his fingers and a job to do. Thomas said it flatly, as if reciting a weather report, and then he turned back to the shelf where he was pulling down the dried herbs for the infirmary. I looked at my hands. They were stiff, the knuckles swollen, the skin cracked and flaking like old parchment. The ink had dried into the creases of my...
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