The Golden Master
The fire did not roar. It whispered. It came for the roof of the old hall in a slow, hungry sheet of orange light, licking at the eaves with a patience that felt older than the timber itself. You stood on the porch, your coat soaked through by the sudden rain, watching the darkness consume the place where you had spent your life. The smoke smelled of pine and copper, a sharp, metallic tang that...
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