The Pale Exile
My right hand was trembling so violently that the quill snapped against the vellum, leaving a jagged black tear across the lower margin of the *Codex Aeternum*, a wound in the page that looked less like an error and more like a confession. I sat in the cramped, ink-stained scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude, the air thick with the smell of lamp oil, dried rabbit skin, and the metallic tang of...
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