The Golden Master
The fog did not merely sit upon the water of the Thames; it breathed, a living, grey lung that expanded and contracted with the rhythm of the city’s hidden veins. Within the sealed, windowless chamber of the Blackfriars Archive, the air was thick with the scent of decaying parchment and the metallic tang of old blood, a perfume that had settled into the very grain of the oak shelves. Elias...
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