The Golden Scar
The bell in the tower of St. Jude’s Hall did not ring for the hour. It tolled for the soul of the building itself, a deep, resonant thud that vibrated in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones. He stood in the center of the Great Hall, a space that had once held the breath of kings and the whispers of conspirators, now stripped of its grandeur, its walls weeping dampness that smelled of rot and old...
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