The Golden Myth
The train cut through the grey mist of the northern moors, a long, metallic snake dragging its breath of steam and coal dust into the damp air. Elias Thorne sat by the window, his reflection a ghostly smudge against the dark glass, watching the countryside blur into a watercolor of slate and brown. He was a man of few words, a soldier of the old guard who had traded his sword for a ledger, yet...
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