The Pale Exile
The parchment is wrong. You look up from the desk, the quill still damp with iron gall ink, and catch the eye of the Chief Scribe, a man whose face seems carved from the same cold alabaster as the court pillars. He does not look at you. He looks at the paper. The silence in the scriptorium is not empty; it is full of the dry scratch of a hundred other pens, a sound like dry leaves skittering...
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