The Golden Farce
In the damp, breathless dark of the cellar, where the air hung thick with the scent of mildew and old iron, Elias Thorne did not sleep but rather drifted in a waking state that felt less like life and more like the slow, viscous accumulation of dust on a forgotten relic, a sensation that had become so ingrained in the marrow of his bones over the last three years that he could no longer...
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