The Golden Circuit
The letter began with a date, written in a hand that trembled less than the ink it produced, for the hand of Elias Thorne had long since ceased to shake with age, having instead settled into a rigid, wooden stillness that betrayed the profound exhaustion of a body which had forgotten how to move without pain. He sat in the narrow cell of the scriptorium, a room that smelled of damp wool and the...
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