The Golden Echoes
The iron gates of the Ashwood Prison were not merely barriers of steel and rust, but the final, unyielding teeth of a jaw that had swallowed the light of day whole, and within this cavernous throat, where the air hung heavy with the scent of damp stone and the metallic tang of old blood, Silas Vane stood at the precipice of his own unraveling, his hands trembling not from the biting cold that...
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