The Golden Crossing
The fire did not start with a spark, but with a scream that tore through the velvet silence of the archive. It was a sound that defied acoustics, a raw, jagged tear in the fabric of the room that left Elias Vane standing in the center of the rotunda, his fingers still buried in the spine of a water-stained ledger. The air grew thick, tasting of copper and old dust, and the shadows in the...
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