The Distant Legend
The iron clasp on the door of the archives was cold, a biting frost against my palm that seemed to seep through the leather of my glove and into the bone. I had been here for three days, sorting the ledgers of the previous century, my hands stained with the dust of forgotten debts. The air in the undercroft was thick, smelling of damp stone and the slow decay of paper. It was a place where time...
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