The Pale Fracture
The letter sat in your hand, heavy with the damp of the tunnel you had just crossed. It was not paper, not truly, but a thin sheet of dried Clarity, pressed flat between layers of waxed linen. You had spent three days preparing it, scraping the pale paste from your own skin, drying it until it cracked, and rolling it into a scroll that looked, to the untrained eye, like a standard...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews