The Golden Farce
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a heavy, gray curtain that smelled of wet stone and old iron. Silas Vane sat alone in the back room of his workshop, the silence pressing against his eardrums like a physical weight. He was a man of sixty winters, his hands mapped with scars that had long since faded to the color of parchment, yet his fingers still moved with the dexterity of...
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