The Golden Circuit
The ink is wet, and the cellar smells of damp limestone and fear. I am writing this by the light of a tallow candle, my hands trembling not from the cold, but from the weight of what I have seen. They call it the Golden Circuit, a myth whispered by apprentices who have served too long and begun to see things that are not there. But I have seen it. The city of Orenthal does not just stand; it...
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