The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-23 17:33:51 -

The dream was not of Mara, but of ink. It pooled in the hollows of my hands, black and viscous, smelling of wet earth and old blood. I woke with the taste of iron on my tongue, the scriptorium’s candlelight cutting through the dark like a blade. I am Elias. I am forty-two. I am the scribe of the Abbey of St. Jude, and I am afraid. The fear is not for myself. It is for the empty bed in the cell...

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