The Golden Myth
The rain did not fall so much as it was hammered into the cobblestones of the courtyard, a relentless, gray drumbeat that matched the frantic thudding of Elias Thorne’s heart, which felt less like an organ and more like a trapped bird beating its wings against the bars of his own ribcage. He stood beneath the awning of the St. Jude’s Foundry, his shoulders hunched, his hands buried deep in the...
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