The Golden Scar
The brass key was warm in Elias Thorne’s palm, a small, dense weight that felt less like metal and more like a living thing, pulsing with a heat that defied the chill of the archive room. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; the distinction had blurred within the gray, steam-thickened air of the Ministry of Civic Harmony. Outside, the city of London groaned under the weight of its own...
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