The Golden Downtown
The ink in my veins has begun to taste of iron and old rain. I am writing this from the high window of the Scriptorium, where the air is thick with the scent of cedar and decay. My name is Elian, and I am twelve years old, though I feel older than the stones that hold this city together. For three years, I have been the apprentice to Master Thorne, the last of the High Scribes. My desire is...
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