The Golden Harbor
The ash was still warm on Elara’s fingertips, a gritty, grey residue that smelled of sulfur and old parchment, and she could not scrub it away no matter how hard she rubbed her hands together in the cold basin water, the sound of the scrubbing the only thing in the scriptorium that was not the low, ceaseless hum of the Whispering Ink in the jars on the shelf behind her, a hum that seemed to...
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