The Golden Master
The house did not burn. It screamed. A sound tore through the night. High. Thin. A shriek of metal twisting against stone. Not the crash of timber. Not the roar of flame. A vibration in the teeth. A frequency that felt like a needle in the brain. Silas Vane stood in the center of the kitchen. His boots were steel-toed. His hands were gloved. He held a tablet. The screen was black. The glass was...
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