The Golden Quest
The ink was black. Not the dull grey of common soot, nor the deep brown of walnut stain. It was a void. A hole in the page. Arthur Vane held the quill. His hand did not tremble. He was a scholar. He knew the weight of words. He knew the architecture of sentences. But he did not know this. The room was cold. Stone walls. High ceilings. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light that cut through...
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