The Golden Song
The rain against the windowpane of the Ministry of Echoes did not sound like rain; it sounded like the slow, wet grinding of millstones, a rhythmic thudding that Elias Thorne had long since learned to ignore in favor of the more pressing task at hand. He sat at his oak desk, the wood worn smooth by the elbows of three generations of clerks, and stared at the ledger before him, his quill poised...
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