The Wistful Incense
The vial sat in my palm, cold and heavy, its glass rim biting into my calloused thumb. Inside, the ink was not black but a deep, bruised violet, swirling with a viscosity that defied the stillness of the room. I had been holding it for an hour, waiting for the tremor in my hands to pass, but the shake only grew worse as the silence of the scriptorium pressed against my eardrums. I am Elias...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews