The Golden Mirror
The ink on Elias Thorne’s fingers had dried into a dark, flaking crust, a second skin that cracked when he moved his thumbs. He held the quill like a surgeon holds a scalpel, the weight of it familiar and cold against his palm, yet the paper beneath it seemed to shift, the fibers rearranging themselves into patterns that did not match the catalogue in his head. It was the night of the...
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