The Faded Paradox
You count the coins. Again. The gold is warm. It burns. Your hands shake. Not from cold. From fear. The room is small. Stone walls. Damp. Smells of wet wool. And old blood. You are Elias. You are a maker. Of locks. And keys. And silence. The lock is in your hands. It is iron. Heavy. Worn. The teeth are dull. Like old bones. You have held it for three days. Since the Lord came. Lord Vane. He is...
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