The Golden Downtown
The ink was black, but the light in the vault was gold, and Elias could not tell which was staining his fingers as he ground the pigment for the morning’s entry. His hand shook, a fine, persistent tremor that had begun three weeks ago, a betrayal by the nerves that had served him faithfully for twenty years in the Royal Archive. He was forty years old, and the city of Aethelgard, with its...
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