The Golden Circuit
The seal is warm in your hands, the wax still soft, smelling faintly of beeswax and old smoke. You press the golden circuit of thorns into it, holding your breath, feeling the weight of the metal against your thumb. It is a small thing, a circle of gold, but it feels heavy, heavier than the paper it rests upon. Outside, the cellar door rattles in the wind, a dry, wooden sound that has become...
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