The Faded Chronicle
Elias, you are done for. The voice came from the shadows of the scriptorium, low and rough with the gravel of a man who had not slept in days, and it cut through the heavy silence of the room like a blade through wet wool. You froze, your quill hovering over the parchment, the tip trembling so violently that a single drop of ink fell, landing on the page with a soft, wet thud that seemed to...
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