The Golden Scar
The ink on your wrist itches, a dry, scratching fire that feels less like a mark and more like a second skin trying to peel away from the bone. You sit at the high desk in the Spire’s transcription room, the parchment before you blank, the quill trembling in your hand, while the screams from the isolation ward below rise through the floorboards like smoke. You are Elara, twelve years old, a...
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