The Golden Quest
The frost on the windowpane had not yet melted when Elias Vane began to hum. It was a low, tuneless thrum, a vibration that seemed to rise from the marrow of his legs rather than his throat, a sound that matched the heavy, suffocating silence of the study. He sat in the high-backed leather chair, his hands resting on the arms, fingers pale and still. The room was a mausoleum of mahogany and...
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