The Wistful Letter
The candle gutters in the draft, casting long, trembling shadows across the stone floor of the scriptorium. Thomas Bradshaw kneels before Lord Aldous, his hands steady despite the tremor in his own chest, as he prepares the vial. The year is 1348, and the air in the high keep smells of damp wool, old parchment, and the sweet, cloying rot of the plague that has begun to eat the Lord from within....
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