The Pale Banner
The ink bled before Thomas could pull the quill away. It did not spread like water on wet paper, but like a bruise under skin, darkening the parchment until the words he had written for the chronicle of the plague year dissolved into a pale, spectral shape. Thomas stared at the blot, his heart hammering against his ribs in the cold silence of the scriptorium. He had spent twenty years in the...
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