The Faded Frontier
The ink is not black, Master Silas said, his voice thin as the parchment we were repairing. It is the color of a debt unpaid. I looked at the basin of sludge before me, the surface rippling with a viscosity that defied the water I had mixed it with, and I did not understand why my hand was shaking, or why the shadow of my own quill seemed to stretch across the table, detached from my fingers,...
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