The Golden Ritual
The ink in the quill was black, but it dried with a rust-colored sheen, and you were pressing your thumb into the parchment to stop the bleed, knowing that the stain would not wash out of your skin, nor would the debt it represented wash out of the ledger. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a senior archivist at the Royal Alms House, and you need the pension seal to pay for your...
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