The Golden Circuit
The fever broke at dawn, or so it seemed in the dream. You were standing in the chapel, the stone cold under your bare feet, holding a vial of ink that glowed like molten gold. Mara was there, pale and shaking, her lips blackened by the sweating sickness that had taken half the village in a week. You wanted to save her. That was the only thing that mattered. The ink was not just pigment; it was...
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