The Pale Exile
The ink smells of iron and old blood. You know this because you have been smelling it for six hours, and now it has seeped into the pores of your fingertips. It is Friday, October 14th, and the tenure committee meets in three days. You need the final folio of the *Codex Aeternum* translated by noon to secure your position at the university. The archive is silent, a vast, cold cathedral of stone...
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