The Golden Farce
The fog clung to the cobblestones of Blackfriar Lane. It smelled of wet wool and rust. Silas Vane wiped his spectacles. The glass was cracked. He ignored the shard. He looked at the map. It was not a map of streets. It was a map of veins. The Guild Hall loomed ahead. Stone teeth. Smoke curled from the chimneys like grey ghosts. Silas tightened his belt. His hand rested on the hammer. Not a...
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