The Pale Letter
The ink had not yet dried when the tremor seized Aldric’s hand, a violent shudder that dragged the nib across the parchment in a jagged, black scar. It was the fourteenth of November, 1347, and the damp of the castle walls had settled so deep into the marrow of his bones that even the act of gripping a quill felt like lifting a stone. He set the pen down, the weight of it a relief, and stared...
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