The Distant Blade
The ink in your well has turned to black blood. You wake in the cramped cell, the stone floor cold against your back, and the first thing you see is the liquid oozing from the cracks of the clay vessel. It is not water. It is thick, viscous, and it smells of iron and old earth. You are Elias, a scribe of thirty years, and you have three days to complete the illuminated manuscript for Bishop...
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