The Faded River
The ink weighed nothing, yet Elias felt the gravity of every drop as it touched the vellum. He was on the fourteenth psalm, the letters of *Miserere* forming a neat, trembling row, when the cough seized him. It was not a sound but a rupture, a tearing of wet tissue that left a spatter of crimson on the pristine white surface. He froze, the quill hovering, his hand shaking so violently that the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews