The Faded Apartment
The quill was dry, a stiff feather of grey down that Elias Thorne held between his thumb and forefinger, the joints of his hand swollen and aching in the cold draft that crept up from the cellar floor. He sat in the scriptorium of the Veldt Manor, a room so high-ceilinged that the shadows at the top of the walls waslong to a different, older world, and before him lay the final volume of the...
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