The Golden Myth
The road to the Spire was not paved with stone, but with silence, a thick, viscous quiet that swallowed the sound of Elias Thorne’s footsteps as he walked. He was an old man, his knees stiffened by decades of standing in courtrooms and council chambers, yet his stride was steady, driven by a compulsion that felt less like choice and more like gravity. In his left hand, he carried a brass...
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