The Wistful Mirror
The quill tip dragged through the vellum, leaving a streak of black that smelled of iron and old blood, and Elias watched the ink spread across the page like a bruise forming under skin, his fingers trembling not from the cold of the scriptorium but from the wet, sticky horror of his own hand, which was weeping a dark, viscous fluid that was not quite ink and not quite blood. He was forty years...
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