The Pale Exile
The quill felt heavy in Thomas’s hand, its feather slick with the cold, thin ink that had begun to behave strangely. He held it over the vellum, the tip trembling not from the winter chill that seeped through the scriptorium’s stone walls, but from a dread that had taken root in his chest three days prior. The page before him was the final illumination of the *Book of Hours* commissioned by the...
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