The Pale Meridian
The ink is drying. You count the seconds between the drop forming on the nib and the feather scratching the vellum. One. Two. Three. The Guildmaster’s shadow stretches across your desk, a long, dark hand reaching for the parchment. You are Elias, thirty-four years old, and you have spent twelve years grinding pigments until your knuckles were raw, until the smell of oak gall and iron rust was...
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