The Distant Whispers
The parchment was heavy, thicker than the usual vellum, and it smelled of iron and old dust. I held it up to the light of my workshop, the candle guttering in the draft, and watched the words I had written that morning bleed through the fibers. The ink was black, but beneath the surface, a faint, rust-colored vein pulsed, a scar on the page that I had mixed with my own blood three days prior. I...
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