The Golden Scar
The ink was still wet on the parchment when the bell began to ring, a low, mournful toll that seemed to vibrate not in the air but in the marrow of my bones, a physical weight pressing against my ribs as I stood frozen in the center of the Great Hall, my hands trembling so violently that the quill slipped from my fingers and clattered against the stone floor with a sound like a breaking bone....
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