The Distant Joke
The ink was blacker than the blood that usually stained Elara’s hands, a viscous, oily sludge that smelled of iron and burnt hair, and she was pressing the seal into the wet parchment with a force that made her knuckles crack, the cold radiating from the obsidian stone so intense it felt like she was holding a piece of the winter sky itself, a cold that bypassed the skin and settled directly...
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