The Wistful Petal
The ink on the page did not dry. It swelled, a black bead trembling under the weight of its own existence, while I sat alone in the scriptorium, the candlelight flickering against the damp stone walls. I am Elias, a scribe of forty years, and my hand shook as I watched the letters of the *Codex Aeternum* rearrange themselves, not into scripture, but into my own name. I wanted to save Elara. Her...
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