The Golden Scar
The ink was black. It was not the deep, velvety black of a midnight sky, nor the sharp, void black of a coal cellar. It was a dull, matte black. A dead black. Elias Thorne sat in the center of the room. The room was vast, circular, and cold. The walls were lined with shelves that stretched up into a darkness that seemed to breathe. On those shelves rested the archives. Thousands of glass...
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