The Faded Frontier
In the dream, the ink is not black but the deep, arterial red of a wound that will not close. You are twenty-four years old, Elara, and your fingers are stained to the knuckle with the substance of the *Codex Aeterna*. The year is 1342, and the Abbey of St. Jude stands like a jagged tooth against the grey sky of the valley, a place where silence is not merely a rule but a living thing that...
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