The Golden Suspect
The ink had not yet dried on the parchment that bound him to the household, but it was already a stain that would never wash out, a dark blotch on the white cloth of his future. Thomas stood at the heavy oak door, his knuckles white against the wood, listening to the rain drum a frantic, hollow rhythm against the slate roof of the manor. He was twelve years old, small for his age, with eyes...
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