The Wistful Show
The quill bit into the parchment, a thin, sharp sound that cut through the silence of the scriptorium like a knife through wet leather. I pressed my thumb into the well of my left hand, watching the dark bead of blood swell, trembling, before I dragged the feather across the page. The ink did not dry; it seemed to sink into the fibers, the letters rearranging themselves into a mirror that...
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