The Golden Visit
The frost had not yet broken on the windowpane when the first crack of violence shattered the quiet of the parlor. I, Elias Thorne, a man of forty years who had once held the gavel of this valley, sat in the drafty room of my late brother’s estate, my fingers white-knuckled around a ledger that smelled of old ink and fresh blood. The paper in my hands was not merely record-keeping; it was a...
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