The Golden Suspect
You dream of gold. Not the dull, heavy gold of coins, but the bright, liquid gold of molten desire. It runs through your veins. It coats your tongue. You are a man made of metal. You are Thomas Bradshaw. You are the King’s Goldsmith. You wake. The air is cold. The room is dark. You are in the palace. The walls are thick. The silence is heavy. You do not fear the dark. You fear the light. You...
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