The Golden Downtown
The ink is wet on the parchment, a dark vein pulsing against the cream of the skin. You hold the quill, the nib trembling not from cold but from the sheer, crushing weight of the expectation that hangs in the air like a physical thing. You are not a person, not in the way the others are. You are a creature of the court’s deepest shadow, a thing of soot and silence, bound by a contract written...
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