The Golden Master
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s precinct was a cavern of clinking crystal and low, conspiratorial laughter, the air thick with the scent of roasted lamb and expensive tobacco. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the room, a solitary figure in a uniform that fit him with the rigid dignity of a man who had forgotten how to bend. He was a captain of the city’s guard, a title that carried the...
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