The Golden Master
The iron stamp sat on the heavy oak table, its brass face tarnished to a dull, sickly yellow, like a coin that had been turned over in sweaty palms too many times. It was the only object in the cramped, soot-stained office of Silas Vane that did not belong to the machinery of the mill, yet it held more weight than the spinning frames, the boilers, or the ledger books that lined the walls. Silas...
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