The Distant Promise
The quill was heavy in Elias Thorne’s hand, its feather stained black at the tip, trembling not from the cold of the library but from the sheer, vibrating weight of the ink that pooled on the page, refusing to dry, refusing to settle, instead spreading into a wet, dark web that looked less like script and more like the bruised veins of a dying limb. He sat in the high-backed chair that had...
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