The Golden Myth
The pen scraped against the vellum, a dry, rasping sound that cut through the silence of the archive. Elias Thorne dipped it again, the ink dark and thick as blood, and began to write the entry for the third time. He was forty years old, his knuckles swollen with the early ache of arthritis, and the only thing standing between him and the pension that would keep his roof over his head was the...
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