The Golden Oath
My right hand is trembling as I grind the gold leaf into the gum arabic, the pestle moving in slow, circular motions that seem to blur the edges of the scriptorium into a haze of dust and amber light. The pain is a dull, rhythmic throb in the center of my chest, a phantom ache that mirrors the beating of a heart I can no longer feel fully, and I know that with every drop of ink that touches the...
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