The Golden Myth
The rain had stopped, leaving the air in the courtyard thick and still, smelling of wet stone and decayed leaves. Thomas Ashworth stood by the heavy oak door of the old chapel, his hand resting on the iron latch, his knuckles white and swollen with arthritis. He was a large man, built like a bridge pier, but time had begun to erode the stone of his body. His uniform, the dark blue wool of the...
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