The Faded Chronicle
The nib of the quill scratched against the vellum, a dry, rasping sound that cut through the damp silence of the cellar. Thomas Bradshaw’s hand trembled, not from the cold that seeped up through the flagstones, but from the hollow ache in his chest that had been growing louder for weeks. He dipped the quill into the inkwell, the black liquid catching the single candle’s light, and hesitated....
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