The Faded Dust
The ink in the well had begun to dry, a crust of black scab forming on the surface, but Elias Thorne did not reach for the water pitcher. His hand hovered over the vellum, trembling with a violence that seemed unrelated to the stillness of the scriptorium, and he watched the quill tip shiver, a tiny, metallic bird trying to take flight from the cage of his fingers. For three years, the Bishop’s...
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