The Golden Suspect
The seal was not merely a piece of wax, but a constellation of red, stamped upon the vellum with a ferocity that seemed to bleed into the fibers, a mark of authority that I had spent forty years deciphering and twenty years fearing. It was the signet of the High Steward, a device of brass and bone that I had inherited from my father, and before him from his, a lineage of scribes who had served...
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