The Golden Crossing
The rain in the capital did not wash the city clean; it merely glazed the soot into a slick, black varnish that reflected the neon decay of the streets below. Inspector Elias Thorne stood at the apex of the Grand Staircase, his uniform pressed to a severity that belied the trembling in his hands, watching the assembly below. The Hall of Sovereignty was a cathedral of marble and shadow, a place...
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