The Golden Circuit
The letter is yellowed. The ink is brown. You hold it in your hands, the parchment thin as a dried leaf. You are the clerk. You are the seeker. The castle of Ashworth stands above the valley, a tooth of black stone in the mouth of the sky. The year is old. The world is old. You seek the Golden Circuit. It is a ring. It is a key. It is a lie. You tell yourself it is a key. You tell yourself it...
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