The Golden Master
You stand in the center of the hall, the noise of the harvest feast a physical weight against your chest, the smell of roasting pork and stale beer mixing with the metallic tang of your own anxiety as you watch the river outside the high windows churn with a violent, golden turbulence that defies the quiet of the autumn night. Elias Thorne, forty years old, your hands are stained with the grime...
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