The Golden Visit
The iron key did not fit the lock. It never had, not truly, though the heavy oak door of the cell swung open with a groan that sounded like the clearing of a dry throat. Elias Thorne stood in the corridor, his hands trembling not from cold, but from the weight of the object in his left pocket. It was a small, brass astrolabe, its face scratched by decades of handling, its needles pointing not...
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