The Pale Exile
The vial of ink sat in the center of the oak table, its glass surface slick and cold to the touch, reflecting the single gaslight that hissed in the corner of the room. I held it between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the slight vibration of the liquid inside, a movement that had no business occurring in a static substance. It was a standard archival ink, black and viscous, yet when the...
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