The Golden Farce
The ledger in Elias Thorne’s hand was thick with the weight of seven years, its pages swollen by the humidity of the Oakhaven foundry, the ink bleeding slightly at the margins where his thumb had pressed too hard in the dark. He counted the hours again, not the coins, because the hours were the only currency that remained to him; three hundred and twelve hours of labor, each one marked by a...
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