The Golden Echoes
The notification slip lay on the mahogany desk, its edges curling slightly in the dry air of the archive room, a small rectangular threat that Elara Vane had spent the morning trying to ignore. It was a standard form, printed on heavy cream stock, detailing a discrepancy in the royal wing’s inventory, but the handwriting in the margin, sharp and slanted, belonged to Lord Vane himself. He had...
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