The Golden Master
The bell tower of St. Jude’s did not ring for the dead, but for the living who had forgotten how to breathe, a muffled, bronze-throated groan that seemed to vibrate directly in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones as he stood before the heavy oak doors of the Magistrate’s Hall, his hands trembling not from the biting autumn wind that swept across the cobblestones of the square, but from the...
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