The Golden Farce
Silvio Vitale looked back on the winter of 1497 as a series of small, grinding failures, the kind that wore a man down to the bone before the final blow landed. He had been thirty-two then, a scribe in the Duke’s chancery, his hands stained permanently with iron-gall ink, his mind a ledger of debts he could not quite balance. The Grey Hum had started as a faint pressure behind his ears, a sound...
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