The Distant Journey
The ink bled. That was the first thing. I touched the vellum, and the black stain spread like a bruise under my skin. My hands shook, a fine tremor that had nothing to do with the cold in the study. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two, and I have spent my life chasing the ghosts of dead languages. Now I am chasing a deadline. Elara lies in the next room, her breath shallow, her body wasting away into...
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