The Distant Wound
The quill was wet. Not with ink, but with a black, viscous fluid that smelled of iron and rotting lilies. I held it between my thumb and forefinger, the feathers slick and trembling against the parchment of the Codex of Ash. The silence in the High Archive was not empty; it was a weight, a physical pressure against the eardrums, heavy as the stone vaults that enclosed us. It was the twelfth...
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