The Golden Maze
The iron gate of the Inquisition’s archive shuddered under your fist, the metal screaming a high, thin note that cut through the stale, dusty air. You are not a man of flesh and bone here. You are a stain of ink, a smudge of charcoal, a living shadow pressed flat against the vellum of history. The guards, men in heavy wool tunics with the insignia of the Order of the White Rose on their chests,...
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