The Golden Myth
The ink is already wet on the parchment, a dark and spreading stain that looks less like a letter and more like a wound opening in the center of the table. You stand in the high library of the Ashworth estate, the air thick with the scent of beeswax, old paper, and the metallic tang of fear. You are a binder of books, a man whose hands know the texture of calfskin and the precise tension of a...
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