The Golden Farce
The letter was stamped with the seal of the High Council of Oakhaven, the wax black and brittle, smelling faintly of sulfur and old iron. I held it in my hands, the paper thin as onion skin, and read the words that had ended my journey before it had truly begun. My license, issued by the Guild of Apothecaries in Bristol, was deemed invalid due to a clerical error in the year of my...
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