The Distant Metropolis
The ink froze before the quill had even lifted from the parchment, a stark white bloom in the corner of the page that refused to smudge, refusing to melt, as if the winter had not merely arrived but had taken up permanent residence in the cellar of Blackwood Manor. I am Sir Aldric of Blackwood, and I write this on the fourteenth of November, 1342, with hands that tremble not from the cold, but...
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