The Golden Circuit
The letter arrives with the scent of wet chalk and old dust, sealed in wax the color of dried blood, and you read it by the flickering light of a tallow candle that has burned down to a black nub, its heat a fragile shield against the encroaching cold of the tower room. It is from Julian, your brother, the one who stayed behind when the walls began to breathe, the one who promised that the city...
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