The Golden Mirror
The ledger in your hand is cold, heavier than it should be, and the ink on the page is still wet, a dark smear against the parchment that feels less like writing and more like a wound. You are Elias Thorne, court appraiser, and you are standing in the King’s vault, a room carved from the bedrock of the palace, where the air tastes of dust and old iron. Your mother’s cough has been worsening for...
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