The Golden Master
The air in the lecture hall tasted of chalk dust and old paper, a dry, abrasive grit that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he stood before the blackboard, his knuckles white against the cold wood of the podium, and he could feel the eyes of the students boring into him not with curiosity but with a dull, collective suspicion that felt less like academic scrutiny and more like the...
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