The Faded Alibi
The quill was heavy in your hand, the iron gall ink pooling in the well like a dark, stagnant eye. You held it there, suspended over the blank parchment, while the smell of damp wool and old paper hung thick in the air of the Magistrate’s office. It was a smell that had seeped into your clothes over three years of service, a scent that now felt less like an office and more like a tomb. You are...
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