The Golden Master
The soup was thick with the ghost of a life, and young Elias Thorne was stirring it with a wooden spoon that felt too heavy for his slender hands, the rhythm of the churn a metronome counting down the seconds to a catastrophe that he could smell before he could see it, a metallic tang of ozone and burnt sugar that coated the back of his throat and made his teeth ache with a dull, persistent...
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