The Golden Scar
The orchard is dead, and the dust tastes of iron. I write this in the cellar, by the light of a single tallow candle, while the wind howls through the broken shutters above. My name is Elias, and I am the scribe of House Vane. For ten years, I have recorded the deeds, the debts, and the silent agreements that bind this family to the land. But tonight, I record the end. My sister, Clara, is in...
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