The Golden Echoes
The fire began not with a spark but with a silence, a terrible, vacuum-like hush that swallowed the noise of the scribes and the clatter of the inkwell stands before it rose in a column of orange fury from the vaulted ceiling of the Inquisition’s archive, a place where the weight of centuries was stored in leather-bound accusations and where the air was always thick with the scent of old paper...
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