The Golden Circuit
The ink is dry. The candle gutters. You are here, in the cold draft of the tower room. The air smells of beeswax and old fear. You hold the quill. Your hand shakes. Not from the chill. But from the weight of what you must write. They call you a liar. They call you a fool. They say you stole the heart of the house. They say you broke the seal. They point at you. They point at the empty shrine....
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