The Faded Root
The ink was already black when Aldous dipped the quill, though the well had been clean an hour prior. He stared at the nib, watching the liquid bead swell and tremble, refusing to drop. It was a Tuesday, the light in the scriptorium low and slanting, cutting through the dust motes that hung in the air like suspended ash. Aldous was forty years old, and his hands, usually steady as carved oak,...
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