The Golden Echoes
The air inside the Great Hall of the Municipal Armory tasted of stale beer, wet wool, and the metallic tang of anticipation that hangs heavy in the lungs when a man knows he is about to be judged by men who have never held a rifle except to clean it, a thick, suffocating atmosphere that pressed against Thomas Bradshaw’s eardrums as he stood at the far end of the polished oak floor, watching the...
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