The Pale Path
The cold in the scriptorium of Saint Jude’s is not merely a temperature; it is a physical weight, a grey shroud that presses against your lungs and settles into the marrow of your bones. You are Elara, and for twelve years, your life has been measured in the scratch of quill on parchment, in the rhythmic breathing of the monks around you, and in the slow, inevitable decay of your brother,...
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