The Golden Maze
The ink is thick today, clinging to the quill like wet tar. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and the scribe of Blackwood Keep. The winter solstice is three days away. I must finish the Golden Maze manuscript by then, or the pension I have earned over twenty years of service will vanish into the cold air. My hands tremble. The palsy has returned with the first frost, stealing the...
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