The Golden Crossing
The letter was pinned to the door of the apothecary with a rusted nail, the paper yellowed and brittle at the edges, bearing the seal of the village council and the name of Elara Vance written in a hand that trembled with either age or malice. She did not open it immediately; instead, she stood in the thinning light of the afternoon, her fingers hovering over the wax, feeling the cold seep...
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