The Faded Frontier
The quill was heavy in my hand, its feather slick with the oil I had used to keep the ink from drying. It was a standard goose quill, trimmed to a point fine enough for the vellum, costing no more than a penny at the market, yet in the silence of the archive it felt like a weapon. I was Elara, thirty-two years old, and I was trying to save my husband, Thomas, from the debt that had swallowed...
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