The Golden Scar
The chain was gold. It hung from Elara’s neck, cold and heavy as a grave stone. It did not shine. It absorbed the light in the vaulted chamber, drinking the fire until the flames looked pale and weak. She was the Archivist of the High Spire. She had spent thirty years cataloguing the sins of the dead. Her hands were stained with ink that never washed out. The ink was black. The blood was red....
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