The Pale Tale
The ink on my quill is still wet, pooling in the nib like a dark, stagnant wound, as I press the tip against the rough parchment. The dampness of the cell has seeped into my bones, a cold that no fire can chase away, but my hands are steady enough to write the date: the fourteenth of November, in the year of our Lord, 1348. I am Brother Thomas, and I am writing this because I must, if only to...
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