The Golden Farce
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Preservation of Memory was a cathedral of glass and steel, suspended above the fog-choked valley like a chandelier dropped from the sky. The air smelled of ozone and expensive perfume, a sharp contrast to the damp earth that seeped up through the ventilation grates. Elias Thorne sat at the head of the table, his fingers resting lightly on the...
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