The Golden Scar
The quill tip hovered a millimeter above the parchment, trembling like a leaf in a gale. I did not look up. I could feel the weight of the room pressing against my temples, the dust motes dancing in the slanted afternoon light that cut through the high, barred windows of the Ministry of Memory. My name is Elias, and I am a Senior Archivist, though the title felt less like a rank and more like a...
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