The Faded Chronicle
Thorne, you are bleeding on the vellum. The voice was not my own, though it carried the weight of my name. I looked down. The ink was wet. It had always been wet, since the first page of the Abbot’s Chronicle, a smear of black that refused to dry, spreading across the parchment like a bruise under skin. I wanted the book finished. I wanted the promotion that would move me from this cold,...
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