The Pale Fracture
The ink in the well was black as a bruise, and Elias watched it tremble as he lifted the quill. The Citadel of Aethelgard did not merely stand; it breathed, a vast organism of grey stone that had swallowed the village of Oren’s Hollow three centuries prior. For forty years, Elias had served as its Scribe, a duty that was less a job and more a slow hemorrhage of the self. The rule was simple,...
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