The Pale Tale
The quill felt heavier than the iron penknife I kept in my belt, a weight that seemed to anchor my wrist to the desk. I held it there, hovering over the vellum, the tip dry and stiff, while the smell of lamp oil and damp stone rose from the floorboards. Outside, the wind rattled the leaded glass, but inside the scriptorium was a silence so thick it felt like a physical pressure against my...
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