The Golden Suspect
The bell tower did not ring at noon. It screamed. A jagged, metallic shriek tore through the pristine silence of the Capital, a sound so violent it felt less like a warning and more like the universe splitting its own ribcage open. Colonel Elias Thorne stood on the obsidian balcony of the Spire, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had not drawn blood in thirty years. The air tasted of...
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