The Golden Quest
The burin in your hand slips, catching the edge of the gold leaf, and you feel the flinch travel up your wrist before your eyes even register the scratch. You are nineteen, and your hands shake when you are not working, a tremor that Herr Vogel calls a defect in the mainspring of your character. In the workshop, the air smells of brass filings and the sharp, metallic tang of machine oil, a...
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