The Pale Mist
The name was not spoken in anger, but in the flat, procedural tone of a clerk checking an inventory, and it cut through the damp silence of the scriptorium with the sharpness of a chisel striking stone. Brother Elias looked up from the vellum, his quill suspended in the air, the inkwell beside him already overflowing with a substance that defied the physics of the room. The ink was not black,...
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