Sample-TheGildedCage-V01-202606101000.txt

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2026-06-06 09:10:17 -

The fog of London did not merely cling to the cobblestones; it seeped into the very marrow of the house on Belgrave Square. For Arthur, the house was no longer a sanctuary, but a mausoleum of a dying lineage. He stood by the mahogany desk, his fingers trembling as he traced the ink of a letter that should not exist—a debt not of gold, but of blood, claimed by a ghost of a father who had gambled...

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