The Golden Echoes
The bell tolls not from a tower but from the marrow of your bones, a low, resonant hum that vibrates through the stone floor of the cell where you have spent three hundred years, a duration that feels less like time and more like a heavy, suffocating blanket woven from the threads of your own guilt. You are Elias Thorne, or so the ledger in the Great Hall insists, though your name has long...
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