The Golden Master
The needle slid through the gold thread with a sound like a bone snapping. Silas Vane, the Royal Archivist, did not flinch. His fingers, stained with the iridescent dust of the Golden Master, trembled only slightly as he pulled the silk taut. The smell of the archive was a thick, cloying mix of dry rot and the metallic tang of old blood, a scent that had settled into his pores so deeply that he...
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