The Faded Alibi
The quill tip scraped against the vellum, a dry, rhythmic sound like a nail dragging across a chalkboard, and Elias Thorne watched the ink bleed upward from the nib, defying gravity to form letters that had not been written. He did not blink. The cold in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude was a physical weight, settling in his joints, a damp chill that seeped through his wool tunic and...
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