The Golden Quest
The ink is warm, which is the first thing that is wrong with it, for ink should be cold, a dead thing, a mineral suspension that dries and cracks, but this fluid, this viscous black substance that smells of iron and old blood, pulses against the tip of your pen with the slow, rhythmic throb of a living vein, and you are Elara, thirty-two years old, a scribe of the third tier in the floating...
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