The Golden Circuit
The ink is still wet. I write this by the light of a tallow candle, the flame trembling like a nervous hand. You will receive this after I am gone. Or perhaps before. Time has grown strange in the Tower of Saint Jude. It stretches and snaps. It does not care for the hours. We have been fighting the dark for three days. You remember the Court of the Whispering Walls. A place of stone and...
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