The Golden Farce
The ink is still wet on the parchment when the door opens, and you know, with the sudden, cold certainty of a man who has spent too long in the dark, that the game is up. You do not look up from the desk, where the seal of the Crown glows red and molten against the white vellum. Your hands are steady. They have always been steady, even when the tremor in your legs threatened to buckle your...
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