The Pale Mist

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2026-08-25 09:01:42 -

The Pale Mist

The quill was warm in my hand, its feathers slick with the humidity that always clung to the walls of the scriptorium. I held it up to the light, watching the ink dry, a black vein against the parchment, and for a moment the silence of the room felt heavy, pressing against my eardrums like deep water. I am Elias Thorne, a scribe of thirty-two years, and I have spent the last decade attempting...

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