The Golden Song
The ink was brown, the color of dried blood, and it was flaking off the vellum as I held my breath to keep the air still. My fingers were stained to the second knuckle, a permanent map of my obsession pressed into the skin. This was the fourth page of the Golden Song, recovered from the damp cellar beneath the Archives, and it smelled of mildew and old iron. I had spent three weeks scraping...
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