The Pale Verdict
The ink is wrong again. I watched the drop fall from the quill, a heavy black bead that should have spread into a soft, grey halo on the parchment. Instead, it struck the surface and vanished. No sheen. No wetness. It was dry before the quill had even left the page. I looked at Lord Vane. He was dozing in the high-backed chair by the window, his breathing a shallow rattle that seemed to pull...
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