The Golden Downtown
The seal was heavy in my palm, a disc of hammered gold that had been polished by three generations of thumbs until its surface held a dull, living sheen. It was the only thing I had left of my father, the only tangible proof that he had ever existed outside the cold, echoing halls of the High Court. I stood in the anteroom of the Archbishop’s palace, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and...
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