The Golden Crossing

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2026-08-23 21:53:45 -

The nib of the quill is wet, black, and trembling in your hand. It is a goose feather, trimmed to a point so fine it looks like a needle, and it smells of iron and old sweat. You are holding it over a sheet of parchment that costs more than your mother’s dowry, but you do not care about the cost. You care about Thomas. He is in the infirmary below, his lungs filled with the wet rattle of the...

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