The Pale Exile
The quill was a swan feather, brittle at the tip and stained with the iron-gall ink that had eaten through three of Elias’s fingers in the last week, the metal nib scratching against the vellum with a sound like a fingernail dragging down a chalkboard. He held it over the ledger, the book of accounts for the Abbey of St. Jude, and waited for the tremor in his hand to pass, but it did not, for...
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