The Golden Visit
The brass compass lay on the scarred oak table, its face cracked down the meridian, the needle trembling with a faint, arrhythmic pulse that matched the beating of Elias Thorne’s heart. He turned it over in his gloved hands, the metal cold and slick with the residue of the night’s rain. Outside, the fog clung to the valley like a burial shroud, muffling the distant, rhythmic thrum of the...
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