The Faded River
The quill was already wet, the ink pooling in the hollow of the nib like a drop of black blood, as Elara Vane pressed the point to the vellum of the Royal Codex. The air in the lower archives was thick, damp with the smell of rotting oak and old paper, a cold that seeped into the marrow of her bones and settled in the joints of her fingers. She was forty-two, her hair grey at the temples, her...
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