The Golden Suspect
The dream was not of fire, but of cold, a blue-black silence that pressed against Elias’s eardrums until he woke with the taste of ash on his tongue and the year 1342 settling into his bones like a heavy stone. He lay in the narrow cot behind the workshop, the heat of the furnace still radiating through the thin floorboards, and for a long moment he did not move, only listened to the rhythmic...
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