The Faded Attic
14th of November, 1892. The dream always ends with the smell of iron and dried blood, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat long after you have woken, your hands slick with a substance that is not sweat but ink, black and viscous, spreading from your fingertips to your elbows in a slow, terrible creep. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, the Royal Archivist, and you have...
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