The Golden Farce
The plague had taken Master Aldous three days prior, leaving behind a silence so profound it seemed to press against Silas’s eardrums. At forty, Silas was a scribe of no particular renown, his life measured in the dry scratch of quill on parchment and the slow accumulation of dust. He clutched a golden circlet, his only inheritance from a grandfather he barely remembered, its weight a cold...
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