The Golden Maze
The iron key was not merely a tool, but a bone of the house, cold and heavy in Thomas’s palm as he stood before the door of the East Wing. It had been passed down through generations of the Ashworth line, each link of the chain worn smooth by the sweat of hands that had once held swords, then plowshares, then finally, the ledger books of a decline so steep it had become a vertical drop into the...
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