The Golden Suspect
The letter from the Royal Treasury lay on the workbench, its seal broken, the ink still wet with the damp of the cellar where it had been stored. It was a standard requisition, dry and bureaucratic, listing the costs for the repair of the Throne of Aethelgard, but my eyes skipped the numbers and settled on the deadline: the winter solstice. I was forty-two, and my hands had begun to shake in a...
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