The Pale Verdict
The ink did not wash off, a fact that Elara noted with the detached precision of a woman cataloguing her own dissolution, as she hunched over the vellum in the damp, candlelit scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude. It was the third day of the *Codex Umbra* transcription, and the black fluid had seeped past the pores of her fingertips, tracing the whorls of her skin with a permanence that felt...
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