The Distant Blade
The quill was heavy in Elias’s hand, its nib worn to a point fine enough to split a hair, and it rested against the vellum of the Book of Echoes with a pressure that felt less like writing and more like pressing a seal into wet clay. He had been awake for three hours, the candle guttering in the draft from the high window, and the light it cast was the color of old bone, illuminating the dust...
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