The Faded Dust
Thorne! Stop that scratching and come to the table. The sound of the quill snapping against the parchment was the only answer Elias gave, a dry, rhythmic click that cut through the humid air of the guildhall. He was forty years old, a scribe of twenty-two, and his hands were stained so deeply with iron-gall ink that the whorls of his fingerprints had vanished into a permanent black. He wanted...
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