The Golden Circuit
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, smelling faintly of wet wool and iron. Elias Thorne stood in the doorway of his study, the envelope heavy in his hand, while the rain lashed against the high windows of the ancestral home. He did not open it immediately. He looked at the name on the seal. It was his own. He had written it himself, three days ago, in a fit of cold clarity, to be delivered only if...
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