The Golden Farce
The ink was not merely black, but a viscous, living thing that seemed to pull at the air as it dried, settling into the parchment with a weight that felt less like pigment and more like a physical anchor. Elara stood in the center of the Great Hall, her hands trembling not from the cold that seeped through the stone floor but from the sheer, terrifying magnitude of the word she had just...
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