The Wistful Saga
The quill tip, a split of raven feather, hovered a fraction of an inch above the vellum, trembling not from the draft that crept through the stone cracks of the scriptorium but from the deep, hollow ache settling in Elias’s chest. He held his breath, a painful, deliberate constriction of the diaphragm, because if the air moved through his lungs in the usual way, the ink would seize. It was a...
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