The Pale Letter
The ink is black, but the word is red. Elias Thorne stared at the parchment, his quill trembling in a hand that had not stopped shaking for three days. The scriptorium was silent, save for the wet, sucking sound of the iron-gall ink bleeding into the fibers of the vellum. It was not a spill. It was a seep. The letters *The Duke is a thief* had not been written by his hand, yet they sat there in...
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