The Wistful Campus
The parchment lay flat on the oak table, the ink still wet, a dark river drying into a stain that looked less like a word and more like a wound. Elias stared at the letters, the sharp, angular strokes of his own hand, but the meaning was not his. It read *debt*, a single, brutal word that had not been there a moment before he had dipped the quill. He looked at the vial of crushed lapis lazuli,...
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