The Pale Tale
The ink bled. It happened again at midday, a dark vein spreading from the letter ‘a’ in *Aldric* across the parchment. I watched it with the detached curiosity of a man observing a stain on his sleeve, not with the horror I should have felt. I am Thomas, forty-two years old, a clerk in the scriptorium of St. Jude’s Abbey. I have twenty years of service behind me and, I am told, a tremor in my...
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