The Golden Crossing
The brass compass had sat in the center of the polished mahogany table for three days, untouched, its needle trembling with a faint, persistent agitation that seemed to hum against the silence of the high-ceilinged office, a metallic whisper that Colonel Elias Thorne could not ignore despite the rigid discipline he had cultivated over forty years of service to the Ministry of Internal Order, a...
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