The Golden Song
Thorne, you are late for the count. The voice did not come from the door, nor from the shadows of the high-ceilinged office, but seemed to seep up from the linoleum floor, a cold, damp thing that smelled of old pine resin and unwashed wool, a scent that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he stood frozen in the center of the room. He was thirty years old, a captain in the Royal...
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