The Golden Circuit
The letter lies open on the scarred oak desk, the ink still wet and black as a bruise, smelling faintly of iron and old rain. You are reading it for the third time, your eyes tracing the spidery script of Colonel Elias Thorne, a man who has been dead for thirty years, or perhaps for three, depending on which calendar the fog outside your window prefers to follow. The date is stamped in red wax:...
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