The Golden Circuit
The ink is still wet on the seal, a dark bloom spreading across the wax like a bruise, and you are already running. Your boots slap against the cobblestones of the Court of Whispers, the sound sharp and rhythmic, cutting through the humid air of the lower galleries. You are not a king. You are not a prince. You are merely an archivist, a keeper of dust and paper, yet today your hands tremble...
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