The Pale Letter
The ink on the parchment has dried in the shape of a broken crown, and you are staring at it as if it might bite. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a court scribe who has spent the last three decades bending his spine to the will of King Aldric, and right now your hands are shaking so badly that the nib scratches a jagged line across the vellum. You need to finish this transcription....
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