The Golden Mirror
The ink did not smell of iron and walnut as it should have, but of wet earth and old grief, a scent that rose from the vellum pages of the manuscript that Master Aldous had spent the last three years attempting to decipher, and which now lay open upon the oak table in the center of the library, its surface trembling not from the wind that rattled the stained-glass windows but from the sheer,...
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