The Golden Master
The iron key sat in the lock, cold and heavy, a small metal ghost against the wood. Elias Thorne stood before the door of the East Wing, his hand still resting on the brass, his fingers trembling not from the chill of the stone corridor, but from the weight of the silence that had swallowed him for the last three nights. He was a man of the law, or at least, he had been, before the ledger of...
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