The Pale Exile
The ink has turned black again, Thomas. I looked up from the parchment, my hand still hovering over the nib. Brother Anselm stood in the doorway of the scriptorium, his shadow stretching long across the stone floor. The room was silent, save for the scratch of my own pen and the distant, rhythmic hammering from the forge in the courtyard. I did not wipe my hands. I knew what the black meant. It...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews