The Pale Tale
The candle flame in the scriptorium did not so much flicker as tremble, a thin, vertical line of light that seemed to hold the darkness at bay through sheer will. Brother Thomas sat hunched over the parchment, his shoulders hunched like a man bracing against a gale that only he could feel. The ink in his well was black, but as the quill touched the vellum, it bled outward, a dark capillary...
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