The Golden Suspect
The frost had settled on the cobblestones of the old market square like a layer of grey ash, muffling the sound of Thomas Whitmore’s footsteps. He was a man of letters, a scholar of history and heraldry, yet his mind was currently a battlefield where logic lay in tatters. In his left hand, he clutched a single object: a silver locket, dented and tarnished, its chain snapped. It was the only...
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