The Golden Circuit
The letter was damp, the ink of the final line running into a small, dark stain that looked less like a mistake and more like a wound that had finally opened. Elias Thorne held it in his left hand, his fingers trembling not from the cold, though the air in the carriage was biting, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that followed the reading. Across from him, on the velvet seat...
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