The Golden Song
Catriona MacIntyre’s hand trembled as she dipped the quill, the ink bleeding into the parchment like a wound that would not close. The fog outside the longhouse window was a physical thing, pressing against the glass, rendering the port useless and the world beyond a blur of gold. She was thirty-two, a scribe of no rank, and the curse in her eyes was turning the letters before her into swimming...
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