The Wistful Saga
The light in the study was the color of old bruised plums, thinning out over the mahogany desk where the ink sat in its glass well, black and viscous as tar. Elias Thorne stood before it, his hands trembling so violently that the pen in his right hand scraped a jagged line across the parchment, a sound like a nail dragging down a chalkboard that made the cat in the corner flatten its ears and...
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