Sacred Ink Mga Nobela at Kwento

Every moment they'd shared, every word they'd spoken, every touch that had passed between them, all of it would have to go. I reached for a vial of ink made from ash of burnt love letters. The liquid was black as midnight and warm to the touch, as if it held the heat of all the passion it had once recorded. When I dipped my quill into it, the ink seemed to writhe like a living thing. The first symbol I drew on the parchment began to smoke immediately. The paper hissed as if in pain, tiny flames licking at the edges of each line. This was old magic, dangerous magic, the kind that demanded a sacrifice for every word.