The Pale Dance
The candle wax pooled on the stone table, a yellow tear that caught the flickering light of the scriptorium, and I watched it drip onto the vellum with a precision that felt less like accident and more like a slow, deliberate judgment, the ink in my quill trembling not from cold but from the strange, magnetic pull that seemed to emanate from the very fibers of the parchment, a force that had...
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