The Pale Shadows
The ink on my quill did not merely dry; it settled into the parchment like a second skin, a pale, living shadow that mimicked the precise curvature of my wrist, a phenomenon that the brothers of St. Jude’s had whispered about for three centuries but which I, Elias, had only just begun to understand. I sat in the scriptorium, the winter air biting at the exposed skin of my forearms, and watched...
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