The Golden Myth
The quill snapped against the parchment, a sharp, dry crack that echoed in the vaulted silence of the tribunal hall, and Vane did not even look up from his ledger. You stood before the oak desk, your hands trembling slightly as you tried to steady the nib, the ink bleeding into the rough fibers of the paper like a bruise forming under skin. You were Elias Thorne, senior inquisitor of the Holy...
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