The Golden Echoes
The ink had not yet dried on the parchment when Marguerite de Vienne felt the first cold seep through the soles of her boots, a chill that was not of the stone floor but of the air itself, a breath drawn in by the castle that had been waiting for centuries to swallow the sound of her own heartbeat. She sat at the high table in the scriptorium, the only light in the vast, vaulted chamber coming...
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