The Golden Farce
The cart wheels groaned against the gravel, a sound that seemed to rattle the very bones of the earth as Silas Vane drove north, the autumn wind stripping the last of the leaves from the skeletal oaks that lined the road. He was a man of few words and many scars, his hands roughened by years of kneading clay and glazing porcelain, yet he moved with a quiet, deliberate grace that suggested a...
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