The Faded River
The quill had dried out three days ago, yet I still held it, its nib scratching uselessly against the parchment as if the ink were merely slow to flow. I counted the hours since Thomas was taken, each one a heavy stone dropped into the well of my mind, and the silence that followed was louder than the shouting in the courtyard. I was Elias, a scribe of ten years’ service, and I stood before the...
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