The Distant Journey
The ink in the nib was freezing, a thick, black sludge that refused to flow, and Elias Thorne pressed the pen tip harder into the paper, leaving a ragged tear in the fiber. He was writing to his father, a letter that would not be sent, but the act of forming the words was the only thing keeping the dampness at bay. The cold seeped from the pocket of his tunic, a wet, heavy chill that had...
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