The Distant Summer
The ink bled. It did not dry; it swelled, darkening the vellum until the letters of the Codex of Silas seemed to rise from the page like bruises on skin. I wiped my thumb across the line, and the stain smeared, forming a curve that mirrored the hollow of my own cheek. I am Elias, twenty-four, and I have spent the last three months in the scriptorium of St. Jude’s, my hands perpetually stained...
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