The Golden Circuit
The ink on the parchment is still wet, a dark bruise against the pale vellum. You press your quill into the wax seal, the cold metal biting into your thumb. The scent of the scriptorium is heavy here, a thick miasma of lamp oil, crushed oak gall, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. You are Elias, the Archivist’s apprentice, and you have been summoned. Again. The Hall of Inquisitors is a...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews