The Golden Scar
"You are late," said the Minister, his voice carrying the dry crackle of old paper. He did not look up from the ledger he was signing. The ink was black, but it shimmered with a faint, iridescent blue, as if the darkness were not quite dead. You stood in the center of the Hall of Records, your shoes sinking slightly into the dust that had accumulated over centuries. The room was vast, a...
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