The Faded Alibi
The candle gutters, and the shadow of your hand stretches across the parchment like a grasping claw. You are Elias, twelve years old, and your fingers are stained with iron gall ink that has seeped into the whorls of your skin, turning the flesh a bruised purple. The air in the archive is thick, stale with the scent of dried herbs and rotting vellum, and it presses against your eardrums with a...
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