The Golden Mirror
The paper was thin, the kind of rag pulp that tore with a dry whisper if one was not careful, and on it sat a signature that had cost Elara Vance three years of sleep. She held the pen not to sign, but to steady her hand, the nib hovering a millimeter above the line, the ink pooling in a dark, trembling bead. Across the long, mahogany table, Julian sat with his hands folded, his posture that of...
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