The Pale Mist
Reza Ebrahimi’s hand moved across the parchment, the nib scratching a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone, as he copied the forbidden verses of the Book of Shadows to save his father. The ink bled into the vellum, dark and wet, and the mist that seeped from the page began to curl around his wrist, whispering his name in a voice that sounded like the grinding of millstones. He had been...
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