The Golden Crossing
The ink will not dry. It spreads across the parchment like a fresh wound, a dark, arterial bleed that soaks through the skin of the page and stains your fingers. You are Elias, forty-two years old, a scribe in the high tower of the Obsidian Keep, and you want only to finish this final entry to secure the pension that will allow you to buy a small cottage in the lowlands, far from the cold. But...
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