The Distant Journey
The nib of the quill dragged through the vellum with a sound like a small, dry bone snapping, leaving a jagged tear where the ink should have flowed smoothly, and Elias Thorne stared at the rupture as if he had just cut his own finger, the sharp metallic smell of iron and old dust filling the cramped air of the archive room. His hand, which had been steady for thirty years of binding, shivering...
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