The Golden Echoes
The carriage wheels rattled against the cobblestones of Highgate, a sound like dry bones shifting in a shallow grave. I gripped the edge of the seat, my knuckles white against the worn leather, as we climbed the final hill toward the Palace of Ashworth. It was not a palace in the way the poets described them, with marble columns and fountains singing in the summer sun. It was a fortress of grey...
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