The Golden Master
The carriage wheels groaned against the cobblestones of Whitechapel, a rhythmic, grinding sound that seemed to synchronize with the thumping of your own heart. You are Thomas Bradshaw, a man who has spent forty years listening to the grain of oak and the whisper of elm, yet tonight you find yourself trembling not for the wood, but for the mirror that waits within the Guildhall. The air outside...
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