The Golden Farce
The parchment was damp, the ink of the seal blurred into a brown smear that looked less like wax and more like a dried drop of blood, and Eamon held it up to the grey light filtering through the high, barred windows of the refectory, his fingers trembling not from cold but from the sheer, grinding exhaustion of a man who had spent twenty years chasing shadows. He was not a priest, nor a king,...
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