The Faded Guest
The parchment is damp. It sticks to your fingers, and the ink blots where your skin has thinned to paper. You are Thomas, a scribe of the Guild, and you hold the marriage license for Elena in your right hand because your left is no longer yours. It is a ruin of blackened, flaking flesh, the erosion spreading from the knuckles to the wrist like a bruise that refuses to fade. The fever in the...
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