The Distant Affair
The quill scratches against the vellum, a sound like dry wood being pulled apart, and you watch the violet ink pool in the letter’s tail, a stain that does not dry but seems to breathe with a faint, pulsing heat. You are Elias, thirty years old, and your hand trembles not from the cold that seeps through the stone floor of the scriptorium, but from the fear that this specific shade of purple,...
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