The Pale Tale
The ink was the wrong shade of blue. Elias stared at the blotch blooming on the parchment, a dark, wet bruise that seemed to pulse in time with the dampness seeping through his wool coat. It was not a technical error, not a spill of India ink from the vial he kept in his breast pocket, but something that looked less like pigment and more like a vein of iron-rich blood. He capped the pen, his...
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