The Distant Promise
The ink was still wet, or so it appeared in the dim, amber light of the archive, a smear of black that seemed to pulse with a life of its own, though I knew, with the cold certainty of a man who has spent thirty years staring at parchment, that it was merely the damp air of the keep settling into the fibers of the paper. I had been told, by the steward who found the body of my father three...
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