The Golden Scar
The ink did not bleed; it sank, a cold and deliberate intrusion into the parchment that felt less like writing and more like a surgical incision into the skin of the world, leaving behind a mark that was both a letter and a wound, a scar that glowed with a faint, terrible gold in the dim, dust-choked air of the Hall of Records, where the air tasted of iron filings and old, dried blood, and I,...
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