The Pale Echo

added blog Literature

2026-08-23 08:20:08 -

The Pale Echo

The quill was cold. It sat in my right hand, the nib dry, the wood splintered under my thumb. I held it up to the flickering tallow light, watching the shadow it cast on the parchment. Outside, the siege lines held, but inside the abbey, the air smelled of rot and wet wool. I was Thomas, twelve years old, and I was the last scribe left at St. Jude. My father lay in the infirmary, his breathing...

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