The Golden Suspect
The bell of St. Jude’s did not ring so much as it screamed, a jagged tear in the silence of the medieval city that shattered the glass of every window in the Square. It was the hour of Vespers, the light already turning the cobblestones to shades of bruised violet and ash, when the first spark of fire licked at the eaves of the Archive. I stood on the balcony, my robes soaked in the sudden...
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