The Golden Circuit
The ledger lay open on the oak desk, its pages stiff with age and the smell of damp wool. You held a quill, the feather slick with ink that was too black, too fluid. Outside, the wind pressed against the high windows of the archive, a sound like paper tearing in a quiet room. You were twelve, and your fingers were cramped from the cold, but the work had to be finished by the solstice. Master...
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