The Golden Myth
The morning the alms were taken, the rain had been falling for three days, a soft, relentless mist that turned the cobblestones of the King’s Quarter into a slick, dark mirror reflecting the gray stone facades of the aristocracy, and it was in this damp, suffocating silence that Elias Thorne, a man whose hands had never known rest but whose spirit had long since ceased to beat, walked toward...
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